Batman vs Dexter
by GazingAbyss
Summary: While Batman searches for the Joker, Dexter Morgan starts cleaning up Gotham City in his own way.
1. Chapter 1

I drag the scalpel across his forehead, feeling the four vertical scars tug on the blade. The man in front of me, naked and held to the table by reams of shrink wrap, hisses in pain, regaining consciousness just as I push the knife into his skin, almost deep enough to scrape against his skull.

"Sorry," I say, not meaning it. "That's not where I'd usually start, but I couldn't resist."

"That mark will represent your life," the man, victor Zsasz, snarls.

"Yours, actually," I correct him as I bring the pipette to the wound. The blood obligingly defies gravity to race up into the glass tube. I touch the filled pipette to a microscope slide, and a perfect red circle forms on the flat glass. I press a thin cover slip to the drop of blood, preserving it, and set it aside.

"I also have to apologise for the lack of decoration," I continue, gesturing to the walls, covered in nothing but sheets of plastic tarps. "I'd prefer to let you know why you're here, but I think you can probably guess."

My eyes run over Zsasz's body again. He's covered himself in scars, all in the form of tally marks; one for each of his victims. Even his criminal record is vague on the exact number of people he killed, and I assume no one wanted to encourage him by counting. I tried to do a quick estimate earlier, and confirmed that he's killed far more people than I have, something which has become a bit of a rarity lately. Not that I feel unaccomplished in comparison; I've never been caught, while zsasz has been arrested quite a few times. For some strange reason he, like so many other local criminals, has been repeatedly found not guilty by reason of insanity, rather than given the death penalty I'm about to enforce. I've got to find out the names of some of the defence lawyers in Gotham, just in case.  
>I glance between his body and the variety of knives and saws I've brought for the occasion, looking for inspiration.<p>

"I will kill you," he assures me. "I will feel steel dancing in my fingers as it slices through your throat, before the ecstatic pain of the cold metal in my own flesh."

I'm not sure whether to be annoyed that he's getting poetic or disgusted at how unhygienic that sounds, but my dark passenger chuckles and whispers a suggestion. I glance over the knives, looking for one that will work. They're all sharp enough to go through any flesh, but bones are more difficult. That either requires force, which is less precise, a saw, which is slower, or - my hand hovers over a long but razor thin blade - something small enough to wiggle through the small gaps in a joint.

I push the blade down into Zsasz's wrist. It easily slices through the skin, fat and muscle before it clicks against the ulna. I slide it down and shove it between the larger bones and the metacarpals, prying the two sets of bones apart. Zsasz's hand shifts away from his arm by a millimetre, just enough to look unnatural. To his credit, zsasz swallows the pain completely, refusing to make a sound and instead silently glaring at me. The hand, now moving unnaturally loosely with any nudge from the knife, is completely severed when I slice through the veins and skin still holding it in place. Blood spills forward, puddling around the cut and dripping over the side of the table.

"I hate to tell you this, but you definitely won't get to enjoy feeling a knife in your hands again," I say as a walk around the table to his other hand and start to slice into his left wrist. "As for that "ecstasy of pain" you were talking about? You're about to feel a lot of that."

* * *

><p>Crouched deep in the shadows, I watch the unassuming door leading out from one of the imposing brick buildings lining the narrow alley. This particular building is the home of a former doctor, stripped of his license years ago, who provides medical services to those for whom going to the hospital means being sent to Arkham Asylum or Blackgate Prison as soon as they're fit to leave.<p>

I've been waiting for over half an hour, and I'm beginning to think that my tip was a lie. I'm just about to stand up and head back to my informant so I follow through on my threat to break his arm when the door opens and a cold light from inside bathes the alley in white light for a split second. When the door closes and the alley returns to its normal shades of yellow provided by the streetlights, I can easily see the woman who exited.

She's average height, athletic, with blonde hair and blue eyes, and she's the exact person I'm looking for. She looks up and down the alley, scanning it distrustfully, her two bouncy pig-tails swaying as her head turns. Just as she lifts a foot to walk away from the door, I slam into her, shoving her against a wall. She squeals in pain as I lean into the hard cast covering her arm, which is raised by a sling wrapped around her neck.

After the initial shock I back up a few steps. Harley Quinn nearly doubles over in pain, holding her broken left arm with her right, and glares up at me.

"What do you want?" she asks through gritted teeth.

"The Joker," I answer. She doesn't blink. She had already guessed why I was here. "Where is he?"

"Why should I tell you?" Quinn tries to growl, but only manages to pout.

I move closer again, pushing against her arm. She lets out another shriek of pain. "He really hurt you this time. Don't you want to get back at him a little?"

"I can handle things myself." Now she does manage a growl. She's getting defensive. There's no way she's going to budge on this. Not right now. I don't like leaving her free, but she won't help me at all if I bring her to Arkham. I'll let her think about things a while.

"I'll be watching you," I say, and back away into the shadows. "Don't do anything stupid."

"Yeah," she says, watching me disappear. "Right."

Quinn heaves a deep sigh and trudges off down the alley towards the slightly-better-lit streets. As I watch her go I feel a subtle buzzing next to my ear. I touch the spot just under where my cowl extends upwards in an imitation of a bat's ear, connecting to whoever's contacting me.

"There's some interesting chatter from GCPD," the voice of Barbara Gordon, also known as Oracle, fills my ear. "There have been a few sightings of Zsasz, all within a block of each other. I'm sending you the address now."

"Thanks," I growl. "Anything else?"

"There's a body being pulled out of Slaughter Swamp, but it's pretty ripe. You might want to wait for a forensic report. I'll keep you updated and see if I can narrow down Zsasz's location."

Oracle disconnects and I grimace. I hate dealing with Zsasz.

* * *

><p>It's hard to obey the speed limits after getting used to driving in Miami, but I've already passed a few police cars and I don't want to attract any attention while I'm driving around with a few garbage bags full of body parts in my trunk. This far into the aptly named Slaughter Swamp I'm the only one on the road, looking for roads that go well off the beaten path.<p>

My phone, sitting on the passenger seat beside me, face up, starts vibrating. I'm about to ignore it for a few minutes, since I can't go to a crime scene before I get rid of my cargo, when I notice the name displayed on the phone's screen.

"Hi Deb," I say as I answer.

"Don't fucking 'hi Deb' me," my adoptive sister, the Lieutenant of Miami Metro's homicide department, answers angrily.

"What did I do now?"

"You didn't listen to me." Deb sighs, exasperated. "I told you not to fucking… you know… At least not while you're in Gotham."

Deb found out I was a serial killer for the first time months ago, when she walked in on me at the worst possible time. I was sure she would arrest me right then and there, but later she told me she never even considered it. She still hasn't accepted my habits though, and rarely acknowledges them out loud, instead censoring herself with 'you know's, and our relationship hasn't gone back to normal. Not much makes me sad, but the fact that it probably won't depresses me a little. I was hoping taking this temporary placement in Gotham would give her the distance and time she needs to recover a bit more, but judging by her tone it's not working.

"That's not fair," I say, doing my best to sound hurt. "I did listen to you, and you're right. People deserve to know that they're safe."

One of the things that surprised me the most after Deb had recovered the capacity for coherent speech was her indignation that I had made Travis quietly disappear. She'd been furious that Miami would remain in a panic for weeks, not knowing that the Doomsday Killer was unable to hurt anyone else. I think the fact that my actions had added to Miami Metro's abysmally large proportion of open murder cases may have also contributed to her righteous anger.

I signal to turn, even though I can't see any other cars on the road – safety first – and turn down an abandoned looking dirt road, finding a place in the swamp nowhere near any of the other spots I've used over the past few weeks.

"Then why am I watching a leg getting pulled out of the swamp near Gotham on the news?" Deb demands.

Whoops.

"That could be from anyone."

"That doesn't exactly sound like you're denying it."

"Deb-"

"Just listen to me for a second," she cuts me off. "I'm pissed about this, but mostly I'm worried." Her voice cracks a little, and I feel a tiny twinge of regret. "Can't you at least wait until you're back home? If this is connected back to Miami you're fucked."

Despite the sizeable blind spot Deb used to have about me, she is a great detective. It took one look at the cut on Travis' cheek for her to realize that James Doakes was not the Bay Harbour Butcher.

"Could you just…" Deb starts again. "Can't you just leave things to the professionals for once, Dex?"

"Deb, this is Gotham. Not even the professionals are leaving things to the professionals."

* * *

><p>It takes Oracle less time to dig up the ownership of a few suspicious buildings near where Zsasz was sighted than it does for me to reach the area of Gotham she's researching. This neighbourhood is poor, and all the buildings are dark, but most of them checked out. With one exception.<p>

The small house I'm standing in front of has passed through a few different sets of hands in the past few months. The last owner, before the current one, was a corporation. I recognized the name. It's a dummy corporation owned by the Broker, who sells buildings to criminals too recognizable to find a legitimate real estate agent.

The current owner has a name I don't recognize. That doesn't mean anything. That's expected from a place sold by the Broker.

From outside I scan the dark house with an infrared camera. No living thing larger than a rat is inside. I enter from a window on the second floor. I can't see a thing until I turn on the night vision goggles in my cowl.

The window opened into a squalid room, covered in trash, with a small stained mattress lying in the corner. I creep out into the hallway. One way leads to a door, the other to some stairs downwards. I check the door first. It leads to a small bathroom as grimy as the bedroom. I'll come back for DNA samples and fingerprints after sweeping the rest of the house.

I head back into the hall and go down the stairs. The downstairs hallway is just as dark as the one upstairs. The front door is in front of me. Down the hall a few feet is an opening. I can see a stream of yellow light, leaking in from the window looking out onto the street. I only need to look in for a second to know it's empty.

So far this looks like where Zsasz would live.

The next door is another bathroom, this one even smaller than the one upstairs. Not worth closely examining just yet.

The end of the hall opens up into the largest room in the house. That's not saying much. The room looks like a kitchen, with a counter and cupboards on the back wall. The kitchen extends to the right by the width of the stairs.

I step inside and scan the kitchen. My eyes immediately lock with Zsasz's.

I tense, preparing for a fight, when I realize his eyes are staring straight ahead and glazed over. It takes me another fraction of a second to realize his head isn't attached to a body. It's just staring at me from a spot on the counter. Four vertical scars run up his forehead. They're old and healed over, unlike the open wound running across them. A rivulet of dried blood runs down the new line to his chin.

I press a few buttons on the inside of my right glove to make a call.

"Did you find Zsasz?" Oracle asks after a moment.

"Yes," I answer. "He's dead."

"What happened?" she asks, sounding more concerned than usual.

"I don't know yet. Send some officers to my location."

"On it." The line goes dead.

I hope the officers Oracle sends will be GCPD as I approach the head. Since Gotham City's crime rate had reached what the FBI deemed 'unacceptable levels,' Gotham had been declared a national emergency. Dozens of detectives and forensics experts had been sent from police departments all over the city for backup, nearly doubling the Major Crime Unit's numbers.

So far the crime rate has yet to decrease.

Upon closer inspection, the fresh tally-mark appears to be inflicted before death. Knowing Zsasz, it was probably his last victim. I make a note to search the area later for any fresh bodies.

I rock the head back a few inches, looking at the cross-section of his neck. If I had to guess, I'd say it happened just after he died. A small amount of blood has dripped out onto the counter around the gaping hole. It looks like most of it drained before the head reached this spot.

I take a small vial from my utility belt and scrape some of the dried blood into it before I place Zsasz's head back where it was and turn around, carefully scrutinizing the kitchen floor. There's no blood anywhere. Whatever happened to Zsasz, it doesn't look like it happened here.

Down the hallway, someone pounds on the doors. I disappear into the shadows before the door is kicked in. Two young, nervous looking police officers creep slowly down the hall in front of me, trying desperately to see using tiny flashlights, aiming it where their guns point.

"There's no one here," I say quietly, trying to startle them as little as possible, bracing myself to grab their guns if either tries to shoot. The one who entered second swings back to look at me, panicked, before he spots my mask and cape and relaxes a little.

"Thanks, sir," he sighs in relief.

"But," the one leading stammers, looking down the hall towards the kitchen, "protocol-"

"I know," I nod.

He nods as well and turns back around to finish the sweep. I see him start as he looks into the kitchen. He's noticed Zsasz's head. He points it out to his partner before they turn back around and head upstairs for a few minutes.

"There's a lab geek with us," the one who saw me first says as he comes back downstairs and holsters his gun. "Should we let him in?"

I nod again, and one of the officers goes back outside. When he returns, he's followed by someone I've never seen. I groan inwardly, realizing he's not local. Unlike most of the outside help the MCU has received, he seems unsurprised to spot me, instead raising an eyebrow, looking slightly nonplussed. His ID tag identifies him as Dexter Morgan.


	2. Chapter 2

As I entered the house for the second time that night, wondering how my handiwork had been discovered so quickly, my eyes fall upon the answer. He's tall and massive enough to make me question the dozens of stories I've heard from other lab denizens describing him running along rooftops and practically flying, but that could just be the cape adding to his perceived bulk.

The black cape is draped over body armour, moulded to give the appearance of toned muscles. I've never needed Kevlar to get that look. Above his chest, his body armour seems to continue directly into the mask covering the upper half of his face and topped by two pointy ears.

The Batman. The two rookie cops who cleared the house aren't even fazed. One even seems a little star struck. I remember a few years ago, when my own work got me a few comparisons to batman, but now, seeing him standing there, I can't help but feel a little embarrassed about that. No self-respecting law enforcement agency should be letting this guy interfere.

No self-respecting law enforcement agency should be letting a monster like me stay free either, but that's different. I don't have institutionalized acceptance. Deb's the only officer of the law who knows about me, and she's not exactly happy about it.

I let one of the officers, the one who's more able to speak coherently, to the kitchen, pretending I don't already know our destination. The black wall of a human being pretending to be a bat follows us, watching closely. One of the cops has turned on the lights, and the kitchen looks strangely normal, if sparse, with the exception of the head on the counter. After a few years, anyone can get used to seeing banal domestic tableaux turned into crime scenes, with some effort. Being a sociopath, I never had to put in that effort.

I approach the head, doing my best to look like I'm only as composed as I am because I've practiced long and hard, but in this case it's a little easier. I'm already a little shaken. I didn't expect Zsasz's leftovers to be found for weeks; at least not until he hadn't paid his rent for a while, and someone went looking for him. Otherwise I would have taken a page from my brother and left his fingertips. As it was, I thought he'd have to be identified by his dental records.

I pull my camera from my kit, held in the black bag slung over one shoulder, and snap a few pictures of what's left of Zsasz before I make a show of examining the head from all angles.

"What can you tell me?" a growl comes from behind me. I glance over my shoulder, realizing that the Batman has spoken to me for the first time.

"The cut across the forehead is antemortem. Decapitation was most likely postmortem, but only shortly after death." About five minutes, to be exact.

"Did he make the first cut himself?"

"The angle's consistent with a self-inflicted injury." I made sure of that. I rock the head back to get a good look at the blood dried beneath it and notice the neck doesn't exactly line up with the stain on the counter, instead matching the smears a few millimetres to the right. "It's also been repositioned. See here," I point a finger covered in latex down at the dark brown ring for the Batman's benefit. He comes a little closer to get a look. "The head's been sitting here long enough for the blood to dry, then it got jostled a little, not too long ago. You can tell a bit of fresh blood leaked out." Someone's compromised the scene, most likely the guy dressed like a bat looming over my shoulder. And here I was worried about Zsasz getting discovered so quickly.

I pull a small bottle of luminol from my kit and spray it around the kitchen. Nothing glows. "No blood anywhere except for under the head. Whatever happened, it doesn't look like it happened here." I made sure of that, too.

"Do you think someone killed him somewhere else," one of the rookies says, finally getting over his inability to speak, "then brought the head here?"

"It's consistent with the blood." I shrug noncommittally.

The Batman scowls. He'd already guessed that much. Now he, and the rest of the GCPD, will have to wait for a more detailed analysis of the scene.

* * *

><p>I slip off my jacket and collapse into the plush backseat of the luxury car. A few hours of tedious board meetings shouldn't be more exhausting than a night trying to save lives on the street, but for some reason it is.<p>

"Long day, Master Wayne?" a clipped, precise voice with a perfect English accent asks me from the front seat. Alfred, the man who raised me and acts as my butler and chauffeur, smiles slightly, amused at my annoyance towards these mundane chores.

"Longer than you'd think." Especially when I spent the day worrying about the Joker's recent escape and the new, unknown threat who ended Zsasz's life last night – things most businessmen don't need to be concerned about. "Any new information?"

"Arkham still hasn't given up the search, but it looks like you were right sir. The 6 o'clock news will be announcing the Joker's escape."

No escaping that. If anything, I wished the GCPD had made the announcement sooner for everyone's safety, but the staff at Arkham Asylum held out hope the Joker would be found for long hours after his cell was discovered empty.

"What about Zsasz?"

"Nothing new has been found," Alfred replies. "To be honest, public reaction has ranged from apathetic to glad. The GCPD haven't felt any pressure on this one."

I try not to let Alfred see my disappointment in the people of Gotham, but I don't think I succeed. I understand the city's relief. I feel it myself. But the discovery of Zsasz's head means someone out there killed him.

After the head was taken back to the GCPD morgue for a more in-depth analysis, I overheard a few things over the dispatch. I heard a lot of messages that could be summed up as 'good riddance'. No one was concerned about how Zsasz died. Most speculated it was someone who was wronged by Zsasz, some relative of a murdered child or significant other.

I didn't think so. The decapitation was deliberate. It was the act of someone who wasn't emotionally invested beyond their own sick thrill. There was still not trace of the body. Whoever had done this had had a lot of practice.

"There is one other thing sir," Alfred starts from the front seat. "Oracle finished with the blood sample you sent last night. She says it's laced with etorphine."

High-powered animal tranquilizers. If Zsasz's killer got it anywhere near Gotham, I have a way to find them. At any rate, this confirms what I thought. Whoever did this knows what they're doing.

* * *

><p>A slew of cops rush by my temporary workspace at Gotham's Major Crimes Unit. I glance up from the report I'm finishing just in time to watch them troop out the door. I look to Abby, the young woman with dark hair manning the desk beside me, another outside forensics expert, trying to get her attention.<p>

"What's going on?" I ask quietly.

She glances back at another group, quietly huddled near Commissioner Gordon's office, whispering to each other. She hesitates another second before nodding, deciding to share what she knows.

"I heard the Joker broke out last night," she answers me softly. "They're only just announcing it tonight for some reason. I think the beat cops are heading out en masse to prevent a panic."

The Joker. I was afraid I wouldn't get a chance to meet Gotham City's most notorious killer. I should have guessed he'd manage to escape from the revolving door that is Arkham Asylum sooner or later. On the other hand, this means I'll have to go back to the practically anonymous thugs I was using to satisfy my dark passenger for the past few weeks to get the information I'll need. But that will have to wait. I already have plans for tonight.

Abby bounces up from her desk, excited.

"Where are you off to?" I ask.

"You know that body they pulled out of Slaughter Swamp yesterday?"

"I heard about it on the news." Unfortunately.

"I'm going to the briefing on it. You coming?"

I shake my head, smiling ruefully. "No blood." It's a little ironic that I'm rarely asked for my expert opinion on my own kills, but I prefer it that way.

The perky DNA expert tilts her head and smiles out of the corner of her mouth. "I think I can get you in."

No self-respecting forensics investigator of any type would turn that invitation down. I don't have a choice. I force a smile. "Great. As long as it's no trouble for you?" That's too much to hope for.

"Not at all." She grins. "You can be my plus one."

"Great." I get up and follow her to down a hallway to the large room being used for the briefing. A few detectives and lab rats are already milling around the large table dominating the room, and a studious looking man wearing glasses is staring intently at the white board at the front, covered in notes and pictures taken at the scene and during the autopsy.

I'm not nervous or anything. The GCPD couldn't have found much yet – I doubt they will – and I have a great poker face. But I take pride in my work. Seeing my neat cuts turned into the ragged edges by decomposition and the local fauna is disappointing.

"Alright, let's get this over with," one of the detectives says as he breaks away from the group. He's a large man, unkempt and slouching. I easily recognize him as Harvey Bullock. I suppress a smile. If he's the one leading this investigation I have even less to worry about. He motions to a mug shot tacked to the board showing a native-American man with long black hair, tied back behind his head. "This is Nixon Two-Bear, one of the Two-Bear brothers. He's a career criminal. He and his brother Kennedy have worked for just about every scumbag in this city."

Bullock is the type who'd use the word 'scumbag'. Still, I have to give him credit. I didn't think he'd identify him so quickly. I should have realized he would sooner or later though; half of the GCPD has to have run into at least one of the Two-Bear brothers at least once.

"Due to his, uh, _lifestyle_," Bullock continues, "we're working on the assumption he was killed by one of his associates. Probably because of something he did or something he knew."

He got one out of three.

Actually, I was planning on taking Deb's advice and laying low in Gotham. The Two-Bear brothers seemed like the type of people no one would miss. But Nixon assumed I was after information as soon as he woke up. He didn't need much encouragement, and what I was planning on doing to him anyways was more than enough to get him to tell me everything he knew about every so-called super-criminal in Gotham. By the end I had to gag him, just to watch him realize that he never had a chance to save himself.

Bullock interrupts my reminiscence by nodding at the much thinner, bespectacled older man who was scrutinizing the white board a few seconds ago. "What've we got?"

"At this stage of decomposition it's impossible to tell if the cuts were made before or after death," the man, probably the medical examiner, starts. After seeing how well some of the bodies pulled up from the ocean floor, still in garbage bags, were preserved, I'm glad that I slit holes in the bags this time. I may like to remember my cuts as precise, but conserving those details by keeping out bacteria and wildlife gives the MEs too much help. "Cause of death," he continues, pointing to a close-up of wet, melting flesh drooping into a ribcage, "was most likely this deep stab to the heart that would have instantly severed the carotid." I have good aim. "He'd have been unconscious in seconds and dead within minutes."

"Anything else?" Bullock asks gruffly.

"I can't tell you anything about the tool or tools used to cut through the flesh – the tissue's far too degraded. But I have looked at the marks on the bones."

"And?"

"The person you're looking for has quite the knife collection."

A few of the group gathered let out a little snicker. I'm just amazed at how easily impressed the ME is. What I have in Gotham is a fraction of what I have in Miami.

"A lotta knives, huh?" Bullock scratches his chin. "Kinda reminds me of the Joker."

I should have just planted playing cards on everyone I killed recently.

"No," a voice growls from the back of the room. I – along with everyone else – turn to see a black mass blocking the doorway. "This doesn't look like him at all."

This guy again?

* * *

><p>"And how would you know that?"<p>

"Because I know the Joker." I glance at the autopsy photos. Despite the decay, the cuts look too precise. Surgical. Patient. Not that I don't think the Joker could do something like this. He just wouldn't be so careful. "This isn't his style."

Bullock's trying to pin this on someone else. Hopefully the Joker or someone equally dangerous. It's easier that way. No one expects to see 'Harvey Bullock stops the Joker' in the Gotham Globe. All he has to do is sit back and wait for me to find his suspect. He doesn't even have to worry about a trial because of the Joker's legal mental status.

"So what do you think then?" Bullock demands.

I ignore him and turn to the ME. "Have you checked his system for drugs?"

"Uh, no." He's taken aback. "Should I?"

"Yes." I turn around and leave the room.

There isn't enough left of Zsasz to check, and Two-Bear's corpse is too degraded to know for sure, but something about the clinical edges to the cuts on the autopsy photos reminded me of Zsasz's neck.

That and the fact that they're both criminals.

I enter Commissioner Gordon's office just as he's hanging up the phone. He smiles and stands when I enter. The rest of the GCPD accepts me. Most of them are grateful for my efforts. Some even act friendly. Jim is the only one who I consider a friend.

"Any leads on the Joker?" I ask Gordon.

He leans over the desk and shakes his head. "It's been less than twenty-four hours. He's still quiet."

"That's what worries me. What about Zsasz? Has his body been found?"

"Not yet. His last victim?"

"No."

Gordon nods, coming around his massive oak desk and leaning on the side closest to me. "I've been looking into your tip. No one connected to any of Zsasz's recent victims has any access to veterinary drugs. I've got someone looking back further."

I shake my head. "Maybe that's not the right direction."

"What do you mean?"

"Zsasz's killer left the head. They wanted somebody to know Zsasz was dead."

Gordon cocks his head to the side and rubs his chin. "So the question is: who was Zsasz's head left for? If someone needed proof he was dead, they'd just take the head for themselves. Why make it so public?"

I stay silent.

"You don't think someone wanted to save us the trouble of looking for him?" Gordon continues his thought.

"I've considered a vigilante," I admit. "But this was done by someone with skill. Practice. This looks professional."

"Maybe it's a warning then."

"Maybe," I say, before turning to leave. "I'll start asking questions. See if there's someone Zsasz provoked recently. Someone who wants to make sure no one else does the same thing."

"Do you want that list of everyone who has access to etorphine?" Gordon calls after me.

"Already have it."

Gordon lets out a short laugh as I retreat.

* * *

><p>Please review if you like the story so far! Or if you hate it, I guess. Actually, especially if you hate it. If I'm writing an affront to both God and man, I should know so I can stop it before it's too late<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

I shouldn't be looking forward to a challenge. Harry taught me, above all else, to avoid being caught. Deliberately choosing to risk everything on a difficult kill is something I should not be doing, but sometimes someone intrigues me. This is one of those times.

I have no idea exactly where my target tonight is, so I have to wait. After weeks of studying the files on dozens of well-known but untouchable criminals, I know where they're likely to be: the Iceberg Lounge, owned by one of Gotham City's more prominent criminals, Oswald Cobblepot. This being Gotham, Oswald is usually just called the Penguin.

Even though it's a swanky, upscale club, it's still not in a good area. Nowhere is a good area in Gotham. The streets are crisscrossed with narrow alleys, full of garbage and puddles from an earlier rainstorm. I'm parked in one of those alleys now, behind the Iceberg Lounge, the rental car I've been driving taking up the entire width. I'm facing a door exiting from the club, far back enough that the black car is invisible in the shadows.

I lean forward, peering into the darkness, as the door opens and someone stumbles out. In the light I make out his face. Pino Maroni. The man's all class. He runs the Maroni crime family and can spend thousands of dollars on a night on the town, and he can't be bothered to just use a urinal.

I slide out of the car as silently as I can, leaving the door open. I dig deep into a pocket, extracting a syringe full of M-99. Maroni finishes spraying against the wall, adding one more puddle to the already soaking alley, and I allow him to zip up before I slip the needle into his carotid artery and push the plunger down. I catch him from behind as he goes limp, and pull him towards the car, finally rolling him into the trunk, before I start the car and pull out of the alley.

* * *

><p>Trucks dropping off massive shipments of cargo to a night club are suspicious under any circumstances. It's even worse when said night club is operated by a known criminal.<p>

The Penguin, real name Oswald Cobblepot, is the owner of said night club. He's also an arms dealer. Right now it looks like he's about to make a sale.

I make a point of monitoring the Iceberg Lounge. With its clientele and under -the-table deals, it's important for me to know what's happening there. Normally it's impossible to prove anything, but now it looks like the Penguin is about to go too far.

Getting in is easy enough. It's filled with security guards, but only of the type available to a criminal like Cobblepot. Lazy and inattentive. I open a window on the top floor, where the management office is, and slip inside. I know the layout. I've entered the office of Cobblepot himself, currently dark and empty.

Listening closely for any footsteps outside, footsteps of someone who may want to enter, I head for the safe. I pull a small tool from my utility belt. I think of Selina, wondering if she would want this device or scoff at the fact that I need it, as I place it over the combination lock and let it do its work. Within seconds the door swings open.

The safe is filled with stacks of bills. It's too much to be from the club's legitimate operations. It can't be from any small-time deal for a few guns. This is from whoever ordered the hardware.

I take one bill and slip it into a pouch. The serial number might give me a chance to track the money, find out where it came from. Then I may be able to figure out who's on the receiving end.

As a pull the bill out a small piece of paper flutters to the floor. The bill sags down, and I realize it had a paper clip on it. The paper is a corner of a large piece. I search the safe for the rest, but it must have already been ripped off and kept by Cobblepot.

The segment I have simply has the end of a longer designation number. I recognize it. It's a way of identifying warehouses at the docks. Gotham City used to have a much larger import industry. It's mostly faded away now, leaving dozens of empty warehouses. A sad sign for the city, but a boon to its criminal element. The note doesn't tell me enough to identify the warehouse, but it tells me the area.

The only other thing written on the scrap of paper is the letter J. It, along with the wild scrawl, tells me all I need to guess who is buying the weapons.

I hear footsteps, lots of them, coming down the hall. I brace myself for a fight. The footsteps grow louder then softer as they race by the door. As they pass I hear shouted voices. It's indistinct, but I make out the words 'Maroni' and 'missing'.

* * *

><p>Throwing Maroni over my shoulder is easy. He's a little heavier than average, but I manage. Going down a ladder while carrying him is more difficult than I thought it would be though, and I wasn't exactly expecting it to be simple.<p>

The first few steps, before I need to use my hands, are easy enough. Then I have to hang on with one hand while a descend a few more steps before I pull myself as close as I can and try to switch my grip to a lower ring before I fall backwards. It feels like it takes ages to travel down the short ladder.

The heavy rain earlier has flooded the sewers, and now, except for two narrow pathways for sewer workers along either side, the tunnel has become a rushing river, and I'm careful not to step in lest I get swept away by the rapids.

My normal procedure is to follow my potential victims for a while before I make a move, so I can anticipate where they'll be and strike at the best time. This time I couldn't even locate my victim in advance. I only have a vague idea of what area they'll be in right now.

I'm near the center of that area now, and Maroni's starting to feel heavy, so I stop at the next pipe I find, jutting out of the wall and then back upwards, probably into a building above. I pull a length of rope out of my pocket. I'm not used to using rope, and it would have been embarrassing to be caught practicing tying knots the night before, but I think I'm prepared. I tie the rope tightly around one of Maroni's wrist, throw it over the pipe, and tie the other end onto his other wrist. For good measure, I cut one of his legs and leave it dangling in the water before I hold smelling salts under his nose for a split second.

As soon as he twitches the slightest bit from the salts I dash back down the tunnel, hiding behind a small pile of bricks which have collapsed from the outer wall. At first Maroni moves slowly, but when full consciousness hits, he starts thrashing and yelling, creating waves in the already roiling current.

I don't have to wait long before a huge head and hulking shoulders break through the surface of the water, eyeing Maroni greedily. Waylon Jones, also aptly called Killer Croc due to his scaly appearance, the result of a skin condition. He's every bit the monster his file describes. His teeth have been filed to sharp fangs, and he's known for eating sewer workers and the homeless people who end up in what he considers his domain. I've used alligators to get rid of evidence before, but now I'm wondering how many criminals in Gotham have realized they don't even need to leave the city to do the same.

Maroni doesn't even have time to notice Waylon before he's slammed into the wall behind him by an arm the width of a tree trunk strongly enough to break the rope holding Maroni's arms up with his shove. He's thrown down onto the small path and Waylon brings his hands down hard on Maroni's stomach. I hear the ripping of fabric and see blood well up under Waylon's thick fingers. As soon as he has a hand pushed down into Maroni's torso, he rips upwards, tearing pink flesh like wet paper.

Maroni's screams become shrieks of agony as Waylon again shoves an enormous hand into the deep gash. Waylon rummages for a second before coming up with a hand full of dark, purple tissue that I identify as part of a liver dripping a river of thick blood down his forearm. He brings the organ to his face and shoves the unfortunate mobster's flesh into his mouth, lapping up more blood from his hand. Maroni's screams cover up the sound of my approach and I bring a syringe down into Waylon's neck and push the plunger down.

He looks up at me, blinking, dumbfounded. I wonder if maybe I calculated the amount I'd need to take him down wrong and glance at the needle only to see the tip has broken off. All the tranquilizer pushed out of the syringe was running harmlessly down Waylon's neck after the thin metal bent and broke against his thick skin.

I back away as the reptilian looking man slowly lumbers to his feet, then turn and run as I realize I can't win this fight. I hear a roar behind me and have to suppress the urge to look back as I feel, rather than hear his footsteps rumbling the ground beneath my feet.

The pathway is narrow, and Waylon has a lot of weight to move. He can't keep up with me by swimming, even if he is an expert, and I've got a head start. I see the ladder ahead of me and hope he won't pursue me into the streets. In the open, I may not have a chance against this giant.

I reach the ladder after putting a bit more distance between me and Waylon, and begin the climb. Even through the metal rungs I can feel the vibration of Jones getting closer, but I'm almost to the top. I manage to pull myself halfway out and breathe in the cold night air, almost to freedom, when I feel a sharp, deep pain in my leg.

I refuse to stop, and pull myself out of the manhole, rolling up to face the clouds, lit with the symbol of a bat. From the roars of frustration, I don't think he's following me, but I'm not staying here to find out. I manage to get to my feet and stumble off.

The rental car is parked deep in an alley to keep it hidden. I start to lurch towards where I left it before I collapse, the pain in my leg and blood loss defeating me. I look up to see a street sign. My last thought before everything goes black is that only a city like Gotham would have a street named Crime Alley.

* * *

><p>Whatever happened to Maroni was a perfect distraction. While the Penguin's thugs combed the Iceberg Lounge, I was able to do the same, looking for any major shipments of weapons. Besides a few racks of high-powered guns, probably for security, I came up empty.<p>

Just when I'd finished, Oracle was sending me a message. A body appeared to have washed ashore near the club. I was there now, approaching the corpse. It was dressed in a suit, lying face-down, the legs floating in the water, the arms on shore. He looked like a castaway, clinging to land.

The area is rocky. A parking lot ends a few feet away before the ground drops at a sever angle down to where I'm standing. Large stone blocks protrude from the water. The enormous waves break against them, spraying my face with salty water. Every time the waves recede, I can see red mixing with the water to trail out to sea from the body. More water streams out from a large pipe, draining the excess rainwater from the sewer into the sea.

I roll the body over and recognize it immediately. Pino Maroni. He was at the Iceberg Lounge tonight, before his disappearance. Even in death his face is contorted in shock and pain, his eyes wide in fear. My eyes move down to his stomach, the source of the blood.

His once pudgy gut is now a gaping hole. Glistening red tissue, torn to pieces, lines the new cavity. He's been cleaned out almost down to his spine. The area beneath his ribs looks empty too. Deep scratches are gouged into the rib cage from the inside. I've seen wounds like this before. Teeth and claw marks. I look up to the sewer pipe again. Killer Croc did this.

I check the rest of the body for any more clues. His only other injury is on his wrists. They've been rubbed raw by friction. It looks like he was tied up.

I call Oracle.

"Yeah Bruce?" she answers.

"I've found the body. It's Pino Maroni."

"Do you think one of the Falcones did this?" Normally that would be my first guess. The Maroni and the Falcone crime families have been in a constant state of war for years. This time is different though.

"No. I think it was Croc."

"That's… a little strange," Oracle says, her voice perplexed. "How do you think Pino ended up anywhere near Croc."

"I don't know," I reply. "But I'm going after Croc."

"Right. Be careful Bruce."

The line goes dead. I climb upwards into the drain pipe, ducking down to walk through it. I notice a smear of blood a few feet in. Maroni's corpse came through here.

The walls surrounding me abruptly turn from corrugated metal to old brickwork. The water gets deeper as I move inwards. I debate between using night-vision or infrared before I decide I don't want to be surprised by Croc swimming below me. The tunnel instantly switches to shades of blues and purples. Nothing living in front of me so far.

I keep going, my vision sweeping back and forth for any signs of Croc or Maroni's passage. Any blood has long since washed away, but if he was tied there might be some evidence left.

I come to the first fork. So far the tunnel has been completely straight as it burrows under streets into the city from the ocean's edge. Now one way goes forward, west, the other way right, to the north. Nothing glows red on the infrared scanner either way. I decide to check west first.

I continue in the same way I started; slowly, checking the ground below me as I walk. For a while the water has been too deep to walk. I'm travelling along one of the narrow paths to the side. I'd rather not give Croc the advantage of a fight in the water.

About a hundred yards down the tunnel it ends. The ending is a small, circular chamber, with a ladder going up to a manhole. The manhole is just large enough to accommodate Croc, but it's doubtful he'd leave the sewer. I turn around and head back.

When I get to the fork again I head left, northwards, again keeping my head down. Nothing grabs my attention for another hundred yards, until I see a pipe coming out of the wall across from me. It goes forward a foot, then heads directly up into the roof of the tunnel. A short length of rope dangles over the metal tube.

I leap across the rushing water to the other side of the tunnel. I pick up the rope to examine it. Both ends are frayed. They were severed somehow. My best guess is that it was ripped apart. I look down to examine the area. Another piece of rope, similarly ripped, is on the ground. I kneel and compare the two lengths. They're identical, and the frayed ends match up. The second rope is red with blood. This is what was used to bind Maroni.

I check the area thoroughly, but find nothing else except a syringe with a broken tip. I'm ready to discount it as the castoff of a junkie until I remember Oracle's information about the etorphine. It's a long shot, but I take the syringe for analysis.

As I continue into the sewer, hoping to spot Croc, I wonder what it could mean if Zsasz's killer had been here. Maybe he was using the sewers as a private place to kill his victims and Croc interrupted him.

That didn't sound right. Zsasz's killer had been too careful so far for something like that. If they knew enough about Zsasz, Two-Bear and Maroni to get at them so easily, it wouldn't make sense for him to be completely unaware of someone as well-known as Croc.

Suddenly a gruesome realization hits me. Maroni was bait.


	4. Chapter 4

From the author: Hey guys, thanks for all the great reviews! I'm trying to keep all the helpful criticisms in mind, so keep sending me advice if something could be improved.

Now, without any further ado...

* * *

><p>The first thing I focus on as I come to is a thin, delicate hand reaching over me. I grab it around the wrist with lightning speed and its owner lets out a squeak. I look up to see two blue eyes, flanked by two bouncy streams of blond hair, staring down at me.<p>

"I found you outside in the alley," the woman explains in a voice thick with a Jersey accent. "You were bleedin' all ovah the place."

In a flash, I remember how I ended up passed out in Crime Alley. I also recognise the woman in front of me as Harley Quinn. I've been planning on meeting her sometime soon, but not right now.

"Can you get me some water?" I ask as I let go of her wrist.

"Sure!" she says, practically beaming. She hops to her feet and skips out the door.

I sit up. I'm in a bed, next to a window looking down on Crime Alley. No wonder she found me. I draw my leg towards myself and roll up the leg of my pants. Harley's already patched me up and covered the wound with a bandage. It looks like she knew what she was doing.

I check my pockets, realizing I'm travelling a bit lighter than I was on the way to deal with Waylon. A quick glance around the room reveals the reason why: Harley went through my pockets and left my small bag on a small stand next to the bed.

I roll out of the bed, putting less weight than usual on my left leg, and pick up the small, black carrier. The zipper that goes around most of the outside is halfway open. I never would have left it like that. Checking through it, everything seems intact, but a little disorderly. Harley's been through it. She's seen the knives I'm carrying, along with the second, back-up syringe full of M-99.

Not that it matters now. I extract the syringe, uncapping it as I check to make sure nothing's spilled. At least tonight's not a total loss.

* * *

><p>"I couldn't find Croc," I say to Oracle when I call to check in. "I did find a syringe though. I gave it to Robin. He'll be dropping it off for analysis soon."<p>

"What am I looking for?"

"Animal tranquilizers."

"You think this was the guy who killed Zsasz?" Oracle asks in disbelief. "That's kind of a long-shot, don't you think?"

"I know that. But I have a hunch."

"Alright then." She pauses for a few seconds, making a note to herself or just mulling over my theory. "So what now?"

"I need to look for leads on the Joker. The Iceberg Lounge didn't pan out, so I need to find Quinn."

"Got any ideas where she is?"

"Not yet." I look down towards the apartment a story below me and across the street. A light goes on inside as its resident comes home. "I'll let you know if I come up with anything."

I end the call and glide across the street, lighting on the fire escape three floors above the ground. Within seconds of leaping off the roof I've slid open the window to an unlit room and slipped inside, melting into the shadows.

From my spot crouched in the darkness I can easily see into the kitchen. The sole inhabitant of the small apartment is leaning back on a chair, six-inch heeled feet kicked up onto the counter, sipping from a glass of white wine languorously.

She looks tired. For a second I regret bothering her for this, but I remember how much I need this information.

"Selina," I say as I stride into the kitchen. Selina Kyle, also known as Catwoman, focuses her brilliant green eyes on me.

She rocks back a little extra, giving her feet a few inches of clearance above the counter, before she leans forward again, turning just enough that her stiletto heels land, instead of back where they started, on the linoleum floor of her kitchen with a click. The momentum of her tip forward lets her gracefully, seamlessly, land on her feet.

"Bruce," she responds as she walks towards me. She places a hand on my chest as she hooks her leg around the back of mine, digging her toes into the back of my knee as she pushes forward, taking me by surprise. She somehow manages to disentangle her leg from mine before we hit the ground, her perched on top of me. "You know," she says, running a finger down my body armour, "I was just thinking I could use some… exercise."

"I don't have time for this," I growl as I firmly move her off of me and stand. "I'm looking for the Joker."

Selina pouts. "You're no fun. If you're so busy with the clown then why are you here with me?"

"Quinn is the only one who knows where he is."

"Aha," Selina says as also rises to her feet. "And you're thinking that with poor Ivy in Arkham I'm the only one who might know where Harley is."

I nod.

"We haven't really kept in touch," Selina shrugs disinterestedly. "But I might be able to track her down," she drapes her right arm over my left shoulder, "if I have some motivation."

"I really don't have time."

"Oh, come on," Selina cocks her head to the side. "I'm not going to go out looking for Harley until I've gotten some sleep, and you sound like you have nothing else to go on. Besides," she grins wickedly, "if anyone needs some recreation, it's you."

Even if I wracked my brain, I don't think I could come up with a convincing argument.

* * *

><p>"Aren't you forgetting something?" asks the part of me that knows exactly what Harry, my adoptive father, would say.<p>

"I don't think so," I respond as I lean over to check out the window, trying to figure out where I am in relationship to my car and whether I should risk running there with an unconscious body or just get the rest of my tools and set up right in this apartment.

"Her arm is broken," Harry reminds me. "And even if it wasn't, she's not that big."

"So how did she get me inside," I finish, finally clueing in. I glance out through the door to the bedroom. Harley's standing in the kitchen, humming tunelessly, with her back to me as she fills a glass of water. "Where's your help?" I ask her aloud, ending my internal conversation.

"Huh?" She looks over her shoulder, hopelessly confused.

"You couldn't have carried me inside yourself."

"Oh, that." She brightens and smiles sweetly. "I'm a lot strongah than I look."

I lean against the door frame, hiding the syringe behind my back. "Then what happened there?" I ask as I gesture down at the sling holding her arm close to her body.

"Oh..." Harley turns away and sighs deeply before turning back around, holding my requested water. "I was taken by surprise," she says, her eyes on the ground and her voice breaking. She hands me the glass and walks away. I see her bring her free hand to her face as she moves.

I narrow my eyes, understanding the sling, but still confused. "Why did you help me?"

Harley looks at me over her shoulder, her eyes still glistening. "I guess I was just bein' a good Samaritan." Despite the tears brimming up onto her eyelashes, she smiles. I don't smile back, but for some reason I slip the syringe back into my pocket as soon as she turns around again. "Ya think you can walk?" she asks suddenly.

I nod. "I think I'll make it." My questions have brought up some painful memories and worn out my welcome. "Uh, thanks," I say awkwardly as she ushers me out. She closes the door behind me as I exit the apartment into a grimy, dimly lit hall.

"You're leaving?" Harry asks me as I head towards the elevator.

"I don't have the time to deal with Harley right now." I push the call button for the elevator. "I was passed out for hours."

"Sure," Harry agrees as I board the elevator. "But that's not why you're letting her go."

"She can also tell me where the Joker is."

"From what you've read about her, Harley's too loyal for that without some pressure."

I perform whatever the mental equivalent of throwing Harry a look is. "Since when did you actively encourage me to torture people?"

"I'm not." Harry, or my own idea of him, follows me out of the elevator, through the building's lobby and onto the street. "I just want you to understand why you let her go."

"Because I want to know why a hardened killer like her dragged me to safety and performed first aid on me," I respond.

"That's easy," Harry smiles knowingly. "You know she saw what you were carrying."

"So?"

"You also know about her taste in men."

Even though he's only a voice at the back of my mind, I can't think of a response to this. I decide to change the subject. "I still don't know why I didn't kill her though."

"You decided not to when you realized why she has that cast," Harry points out.

"I didn't kill her because I felt bad that the Joker beats her up?"

"Think about it Dexter. What about your own taste in women?" he asks as we reach the rental car. "Rita, Lumen…"

"I'm done talking about this," I decide. I start the car and pull out, pretending to leave Harry there, knowing it doesn't work that way.

* * *

><p>"Bruce?" Selina rolls over, tangling herself in the already twisted sheets. "What's wrong?"<p>

"What do you mean?"

"You like you're bothered by something. And not just in your normal 'dark and brooding' way." She props her head up, her elbow buried deep into her pillow. "Is it the Joker? He's up to something bad, isn't he?"

"He is, but nothing I can't handle." I sigh. I don't like to show my vulnerabilities, but right now, alone with Selina and without my mask, it seems a little easier. "It's Zsasz's death."

Selina lets out a short laugh. "Good riddance."

"That's my problem. Everyone's reaction."

She stares at me in disbelief. "Don't tell me you're actually sad about this."

"I'm not sad." I shake my head. "But no one needs to die. No one should be happy about it."

"You know this is Zsasz we're talking about, right? Victor Zsasz, psychotic fuck? How many more people would he have killed in his life?"

"I would have stopped him," I say, interrupting her.

"Besides, it was probably someone who was close to one of his victims," she continues as if I never spoke. "I wouldn't blame someone for doing that if a loved one was murdered."

""If they wanted justice done, they should have turned him in. Told the police where he was," I respond, frowning. "And this was done by someone who's had practice. They've killed one other time that I know of, and probably more before that. I think they tried to kill Croc tonight. I think they're doing this for fun."

"Maybe they're doing it for fun and because they think it's just," Selina suggests flippantly. "A serial killer with a conscience."

"Conscience or not, I'm going to stop them."

* * *

><p>I delude myself into a few seconds of peace before the Harry part of my brain gets my attention again. He doesn't have a comment this time, he just makes it obvious he's in the car with me, and he's not dropping this so easily.<p>

"So what are you saying?" I finally ask, a little disgusted that I even have to say it. "That I'm attracted to women who have been abused?"

"No, not really." Harry hesitates, looking for the right words. "You don't feel anything strongly for most people," he says slowly, carefully. "It's understandable that when you feel… protective towards someone, that you'd be attracted to them."

"Protective." I stare at Harry in disbelief.

"Yes, protective," he reaffirms. "You don't like it when people hurt someone who's defenseless."

"Let me guess, you're going to say it's because of my mother's murder."

"Well…"

Harry is cut off by the sound of my phone, left in the car, buzzing. The display lets me know it's Deb calling.

"Speaking of Freudian," I say as I pick up the phone and answer.

"Dexter!" Deb yells in my ear before I have a chance to say anything. "Where were you? I've been calling all night."

"Sleeping. I just woke up." It's not exactly a lie.

"You don't sound… Nevermind." I can tell over the phone that Deb's shaking her head. "What matters is that you did exactly what I told you not to do last night. I saw the news. You're only going to be in Gotham for a few more weeks, and you have a son to think about. You couldn't have even waited a few days, just out of respect for me?"

"To be fair, I did that before you called."

Deb makes a short sound of frustration before the line goes dead.

"That really wasn't this right thing to say," Harry chimes in.

"I know. I just couldn't resist."


	5. Chapter 5

Barbara Gordon's office is small, cramped, and filled with computer towers and other pieces of technology she's handpicked to get more power. Not a single piece of paper can be seen. It's just the way she likes it. When I come in, she's sitting in front of the largest monitor, the one at the back, tapping away at the keyboard. I clear my throat and she looks over her shoulder.

"Bruce," she smiles. "Shouldn't you be at a board meeting somewhere?"  
>I shrug. "The board can handle things without me. Besides," I smile as I roll an office chair into position and sit, "what kind of self-respecting billionaire playboy doesn't take days off whenever he wants?"<p>

Barbara laughs and pushes down on the right wheel of her chair, turning to face me. "I'm guessing you're here about that sample you sent me last night."

I nod. "Have you gotten a chance to take a look?"

"I have. I've also gotten a look at the file on Two-Bear."

"And?"

"And you're right. Before he was killed, Two-Bear was given a massive dose of etorphine. Same as Zsasz. That syringe you found in the sewer also used to hold etorphine." She sighs, shaking her head. "I hate to say it, but it looks like you were right. We're dealing with a serial killer. One who only goes after killers, though," she adds.

"We still need to stop them."

"I know," Barbara says defensively.

"So what can you tell me about etorphine?" I ask.

"Well," she starts, "it's an animal tranquilizer, also known as immobilon or M-99. It's one-thousand time the strength of morphine and highly dangerous to humans."

"So the person using it might not know what they're doing."

"No, they definitely do," she corrects me. "The concentrations indicate that they knew the exact dosages. They probably even knew the exact weights of each victim. There's something else." Barabara pauses for a second. "Etorphine has an antagonist, diprenorphine, which wakes up someone knocked out by etorphine almost instantly. Both Zsasz and Two-Bear had it in their system."

I mull this over. "Are you saying they wake up their victims to kill them?"

"It looks that way." Barbara leans forward, her eyes piercing mine. "Bruce, this guy is nasty. I want you to be really careful."

"Aren't I always?"

* * *

><p>"Long day?" Abby asks as I sink into the chair, my unfinished reports for the day in front of me on the desk.<p>

"Five crime scenes," I explain. I look at Abby forlornly. "Even during a heat wave, Miami was never this bad."

Abby shrugs and throws me an I-hear-you look before getting back to work. I turn to my own paperwork, but it's hard to concentrate. I can't decide whether I should give up on Killer Croc, or turn all my efforts towards taking him down. On the one hand, I'm not sure I'm a match for him. On the other hand, I hate to lose.

As I start trying to write the report on the first crime scene I saw today, but the patterns I normally see in the blood are hard to find when I'm this distracted. I try to recall if I've ever had a problem like this before.

The closest I can think of is the ironically named Little Chino. He was big, but even then that wasn't a problem. The problem was my own confidence, or lack thereof. Even bringing in the big guns – or in that case, a tranquilizer gun used for putting large animals to sleep – wasn't helpful.

My confidence isn't a problem here. But considering Waylon's size, as well as his history of chowing down on anyone unfortunate enough to be near a sewer he's inhabiting, maybe bringing in the big guns could work.

Now I just need to figure out where I can get a weapon without a paper trail leading back to me.

* * *

><p>Being the owner of WayneTech gives a lot of advantages. Unfortunately these advantages aren't always enough.<p>

From my previous search of Cobblepot's office at the Iceberg Lounge, I know that the massive shipment of weapons, ordered by the Joker, is stored somewhere in one of Gotham City's many warehouses. What I don't know, even with the advantage of military grade satellites that can watch a large area in real-time, is which of these warehouses houses the guns. There are far too many to search. There's only one other option. Ask.

The fancy limousine Cobblepot is riding in on his way to the Iceberg Lounge shudders as I land on it. I punch down into the sunroof and it obligingly shatters. I grab Cobblepot by the collar of his tuxedo and pull him up towards me through the square lined by broken glass.

"Ah, Batman," Cobblepot says, not missing a beat. "Just the man I was hoping to see."

"Do you have something to tell me?"

Cobblepot has a history of going informant as soon as I'm onto him. It's been useful in the past. With the carnage I think the Joker is planning this time, I won't let him off the hook so easily, but I'll let him think I will. For now. I need him to give me all the information he has, and throwing him in jail won't help me.

"Well, you see Batman, I've gotten a rather large order of weapons from the Joker…" he begins.

I shake him angrily. "Don't you think I know this already?" I growl.

"I'll cut to the chase then. I can tell you where the guns are being stored, but you may want to wait." Cobblepot pauses, forming the words in his head. "They're to be sent to the Joker in two days. You can either confiscate them now…"

"Or wait two days, and follow them to wherever Joker is," I finish.

"Precisely."

My eyes narrow. I don't like to concede the upper hand to the Penguin, but I need the location of those guns. I console myself with the idea of handing him over to the GCPD once this is over.

* * *

><p>My hands clench. I'm being ushered by two large bouncers through the hallways on the third floor of the Iceberg Lounge, the part that's labeled 'Staff Only'. I knew I should have dropped the idea of killing Croc, but I couldn't let it go.<p>

The Iceberg Lounge has a reputation. It's the same reputation as its owner, the Penguin. This is the place you go if you want to bump shoulders with the people Gotham is known for, the super-criminals, or if you want to find a contact within the illegal weapons trade in this city.

I was here for the latter. Purchasing a gun is an awkward topic to being up with a bartender, even more so when you're looking for something more specialized. My first queries yielded only blank stares, but soon I noticed that, as soon as I had given up, the ones I had been talking to were furtively speaking into earpieces.

And now I've gotten the attention of the management. This can't end well.

I'm shoved through a large doorway into a lavish office. The carpets are plush, and the back wall, a massive window looking down onto Gotham's famous red-light district, is flanked by two marble columns. Lording over it all is a man in a tuxedo, top-hat and, unbelievably, a monocle, sitting behind an enormous oak desk.

"Ah! Come in!" he says, pointing at the chair sitting in front of the desk and smiling. "Make yourself comfortable." Instantly the two bouncers next to me part, and walk to the other side of the room to stand on either side of the man I recognize as Oswald Cobblepot, the Penguin.

Ignoring my instinct to get out of there as fast as I can, I do as he says.

"I've heard you've been asking for something…" he leans forward, supporting himself on his elbows, and steeples his fingers. "Special."

"You could say that," I respond. There's no way I'm going to be the first in the room to admit to any criminal actions.

Oswald leans back and motions to one of the bouncers. He picks up a large case off the floor and hands it to Oswald, who places it on the desk reverently, the clasps holding it shut facing towards me. As he sits there, waiting, I realize I'm meant to open it to see the contents.

Inside is a gleaming sniper rifle with a large and, I'm assuming, magnificently accurate scope. A small recess in the case holds a few extra rounds, small darts, each containing a payload of clear fluid. Unable to help myself, I grin.

"So," Oswald says, pleased, "I assume you're satisfied?" He chuckles a little. "Not to pry, but what are you planning on doing with this?"

I look up at him. "Some big game hunting," I reply, more-or-less honestly.

After paying most of the large wad of cash I brought with me to the Iceberg Lounge, I'm again ushered through the back hallways of the club, the bouncers hurriedly explaining that they don't like the Penguin's more specialized customers being seen leaving with their purchases. After a few flights of stairs I'm shoved out into the alley behind the Iceberg Lounge, coincidently through the door Pino Maroni was last seen using.

I'm trying to get my bearings when I hear voices around the corner. I stay out of the light as I slowly creep to the corner of the building.

"You know you and you're boyfriend aren't welcome here," a nasal voice proclaims.

I peer around the corner to see three men, dressed in the same attempting-to-be-classy style as the rest of the Penguin's security, gathering around someone.

"Mistah J ain't my boyfriend right now," the someone being threatened says in defense. I instantly recognize the voice as Harley Quinn, my nurse from last night. "And I wasn't inside anyways."

"You were close enough," another of the thugs says as they advance.

Before any of them can touch her, Harley shoves her right fist up into the gut of the one on the extreme right. As he doubles over, she grabs his hair and forces his head down, bringing her knee into his face. As he goes down, she pivots around and kicks upwards, her foot striking one of her attackers in the chin. Her legs form a straight line like a needle, and she holds her right arm forward as a counter-balance. Unfortunately it's not enough without her other arm, and she falls backwards, landing roughly on the pavement.

The thug who stood in the middle of the group, the one who had been the first to speak, draws a handgun and lowers it to point at the prone woman.

Before he can fire, I've dropped the case containing the rifle and I'm behind him. I seize his head with both hands and wrench it to one side, feeling the satisfying click of two of his vertebrae moving over each other in a way they were never meant to move. I reach forward to slip my finger over his into the trigger guard, and, as he goes limp, I let the gun slide out of his hand into mine. I eject the magazine and throw it and the handgun to either side of the alley.

"Oh!" Harley says in shock from the ground, "it's you."

I pick up the case and offer a hand to her to help her up. She hesitates, staring at it as if not sure what to do, before she finally takes hold of it and lets me help.

"Thanks for the assist," she says as I begin to walk away.

"You're welcome."

"If there's anything I can do…"

"I'll let you know."

I focus on the task at hand. Now that I have the rifle, I should be able to pierce Croc's skin, and keep him at arm's length even if I can't. The problem is I'll need space to use the weapon. Luring Waylon out into the open will be more difficult than finding him in the sewer.

I consider using the man whose neck I just snapped, but leaving him next to a manhole doesn't guarantee Croc will take the bait. Even with someone still living, like Maroni, the chances of someone coming along on the street are just too high. I turn back around to look at Harley.

"I just thought of something you can do for me."


	6. Chapter 6

A quick investigation revealed that the warehouse the Penguin pointed me to was what I was looking for. I could go in there and confiscate every weapon. I could arrest every thug the Joker has guarding it. Then I'd have stopped the Joker's plan.

And then he'd come up with another one, and I still wouldn't know where he is.

Now the only thing I can do is wait. Cobblepot said the shipment would be moving in two days. I don't believe him. Instead of trusting him I left a tracking device on one of the crates. WayneTech satellites are watching the warehouse 24/7, just in case. As soon as anyone makes a move, I'll know.

That's still not good enough for me. Those guns may not be going to the Joker's location. Even if they were, there's no guarantee I'll catch him. Even if I did, I don't want to leave the Joker free for another 48 hours if I don't have to. Who knows how many people he's killed on a whim since he broke out?

My only other lead right now is Quinn, who's been living, according to Selina, in a tiny apartment nearby the sewers where Maroni died last night. The building it's in looks dark and deserted, and it only takes a few seconds to stealthily creep in.

I wander through the apartment for a second, but I could tell as soon as I entered that no one was home. It takes me all of five steps to walk the width of the place. There's a small kitchen off to one side, two doors, both wide open – one leading to a bathroom, the other a small bedroom. The rest of the space is taken up by a living room area, dominated by a couch that looks like it's been dragged off the street after someone else abandoned it.

There's nothing anywhere that would tell me where Quinn is. I walk to the window so I can lean onto the ledge. I lower my head wearily.

After a few seconds I stop pitying myself and resolve to follow one of the Joker's thugs home from the warehouse. Then I can interrogate him without the Joker knowing for sure how much I know.

I look up, ready to turn around, when I see Quinn out on the street. She's staring up at a building down the block. Suddenly she jumps, before pulling open a manhole on the ground next to her. I slip back out through the window to find out what she's doing.

* * *

><p>As soon as Harley spots my shadow on the roof of the building she starts opening the manhole with her good arm. What she told me last night was true: she is surprisingly strong.<p>

I alternate between peering down the scope mounted on top of the rifle and looking down the barrel. The scope is powerful, but it narrows down my view of the street; I can only see what the crosshairs are aiming at, not the whole picture.

It feels strange to be wielding a rifle. I've done it before – when I was younger Harry would take me hunting to curb my violent tendencies – but I haven't done it in years, and never aimed at a human being. Not that it makes a difference to me.

From where I'm crouched I can easily see Harley leaning over the open manhole. Through the crosshairs I can see her lips move as she tries to entice Waylon to come out into the open.

I glance back over the barrel to look at the shadowed street below, only to see one of the shadows break away from the rest, charging towards Harley. Another check through the scope confirms it.

"Not this guy again," I groan.

* * *

><p>"Hey Croc! Get out here," Quinn calls down into the sewer. "I got a nice steak for ya! Mmmmm, nummy!"<p>

I rush towards Quinn, grabbing her from behind and throwing her down onto the ground. "What are you doing?" I demand.

"Ummm… Nothing?"

I growl and shake her. She winces as I jar her broken arm. "Tell me why you're trying to talk to Croc! What does the Joker want with him?"

"I'm not tellin' you anything!" she yells back in my face.

I desperately try to think of what plan the Joker has that could include Croc. I don't think they've ever worked together before. Most of the criminals in Gotham try to avoid Croc. I don't think he's been included in anything by one of his fellow delinquents in years, unless you count the one who tried to kill him last night.

Suddenly it clicks. That attempt on Croc's life happened nearby. The chances of that being a coincidence are low.

"Why does the Joker want to kill Croc?" I try, getting angrier. "Why did he kill Zsasz?"

"Zsasz?" Quinn repeats.

* * *

><p>As I watch the Batman question Harley roughly through the scope, I wish I could read lips. I position the crosshairs directly on the Batman's neck. The two times I saw him, I noticed his body armour had a gap between his chin and where his neck meets his body. I'm assuming it allows him to turn his head, but it's a useful weakness to know about from my perspective.<p>

The Batman presses on Harley's arm. Even from here I can hear her shriek. My finger tightens unconsciously on the trigger, and I have to restrain myself. I'd rather not give away my presence if I don't have to.

I look out over the barrel and notice some movement a few yards away from Harley and the Batman. Someone's coming out of the manhole. Looking through the scope I see the scale-like skin of Waylon Jones.

The Batman notices him too, and stands up from where he was threatening Harley. Harley, once freed, does what I told her to do and bolts.

* * *

><p>I hear a low rumble from the direction of the manhole and glance over. A hand, grey and reptilian-looking with long claw-like nails grabs at the concrete of the road. As Croc's shoulders rise up from below ground, scraping the edges of the manhole and barely making it through, I assess the situation, unsure what to do with Quinn. Finally I pull her up from the pavement and shove her down the street, away from Croc.<p>

"Get out of here!" I yell to her.

Quinn stumbles and falls, catching herself with her right hand. She looks up and pales at the sight of Croc before she takes my hint and runs off, disappearing down the street.

My quick mental dilemma and the time it took to give Quinn a head start has given Croc the time to squeeze his way out of the sewer. He blinks, bleary and confused in the relative brightness of the streets of Gotham. His eyes settle on me as his pupils contract, and he growls.

* * *

><p>Things looked bad when the Batman first made an appearance. Harley had no reason to help me by staying silent when she could gain favour by telling Batman exactly what she was doing luring Waylon into the streets.<p>

Now that Waylon himself has made an appearance, things have changed. Harley's not around to give anything away, and Waylon looks like more than a match for the Batman, even with all his body armour.

The Batman is dwarfed by the resident of the sewer, and I could take them both down right now. I could even shoot a dart into the Batman and let Waylon make sure he doesn't become a problem.

Instead of firing, I wait. My mouth twitches up at one corner in a half-smile. I really want to see how this plays out.

* * *

><p>Croc lumbers towards me, enraged. As I step back, he pulls his arm behind him, telegraphing his next move. His massive hand goes flying over my head fast enough to take it off long after I've already ducked.<p>

Crouched on the ground, I put my hands on the ground and let most of my weight fall onto my arms as I spin, forcing my heel into the back of Croc's knee. He falls forward a little, but is mostly unfazed. He grabs my head and shoved it into the ground, grinding my face on the pavement.

I struggle, trying to stand. Croc has me pinned. I pull a small device from my utility device and throw it, sharp side first, into Croc's face. It hits home.

The weight on my head is lifted. I get up to see Croc stumbling backward, snarling as he holds a hand to his face. Blood trickles between his fingers.

As Croc rages, I take the opening to go on the offensive. I run towards him, getting a bit of speed, and hurl my fist into his face. The bones of my hand scream in protest, but Croc is only further angered.

He lowers his hand, his eyes wide with rage and looking every bit as red as the gash on his cheek dripping streams of blood.

* * *

><p>I didn't think the Batman's strike would do much. When someone's skin is thick enough to repel a needle, what's a human hand going to do?<p>

Waylon easily picks up the Batman, hoisting him over his head like he was weightless. He throws the Batman down the street like a cheesy wrestling move. The Batman lands head first, and rolls to a stop.

I watch through the scope. The Batman's eyes are closed and his face is slack. He's not getting up to continue fighting. Now all I have to do is let Waylon stay conscious for another minute or so, and I never have to worry about a nutcase in a bat costume being the one to stop me ever again.

I squeeze the trigger. My life was so much easier before I didn't realize I had a conscience.

* * *

><p>My eyes snap open. I don't know how long I was out for, but hopefully it was only a few seconds. I see Croc advancing towards me, then suddenly stops, confused. He brings his hand to his neck, and then pulls it away, staring at it in bewilderment. He looks at me, beseechingly, then stumbles and falls, collapsing to the ground.<p>

I manage to lift myself up, and walk to where Croc fell. His arm has fallen outstretched from his body, his hand clenched closed. With some effort I open his fingers and see what he pulled from his neck.

It's a small dart, empty, its contents most likely deposited into Croc. I remember where he was standing and where he clutched at his neck, extrapolating to where the projectile came from.

I look up to a building down the street and notice a small shadow on the roof. I feel a sting in my neck before everything goes black.


	7. Chapter 7

It isn't just needles that Waylon's skin repels. After drawing a scalpel across his unmarred cheek, I took the blade away to find that it hadn't even pierced into his flesh. This led to what would have been an embarrassing few minutes – if Waylon had regained consciousness yet – as I pushed the scalpel with all my strength into his face without feeling that satisfying release of pressure of metal sinking into skin.

After another attempt, leaning all of my weight behind a much larger knife, I finally have to resort to agitating the wound he was given earlier by the Batman until it begins to weep blood again.

My trophy taken, I stand back to consider the sleeping giant known, incredibly uncreatively, as Killer Croc. Once he's awake, I really don't want to look like an amateur. I look over the knives I've brought with me. If I ignore everything remotely resembling the scalpel or carving knife I just tried – which is most of them – then that only leaves me with few options.

Option one is a hacksaw. It's clumsy and makes a mess, but it can go easily through bone. Behind door number two is a reciprocating saw. It's a lot neater. I pick it up.

The saw buzzes to life in my hands, letting out a thin whine. I press it to Waylon's shoulder, expecting to feel the weak resistance of skin and muscle that I'm used to. Instead I have to duck, as the thin blade snaps off when it hits Waylon's skin and flies over my head, landing somewhere behind me. The hacksaw it is then.

Even the hacksaw glances off of Waylon's tough skin at first. It takes a few strokes before it finally creates a small groove in the rough outer layers of epidermis. After a few more times back and forth along the rut, the very tips of each tooth of the saw are tinged red, but it still feels more like sawing wood than flesh. Finally I feel the resistance give way and the metal starts to dip deep into the muscle.

The next few inches of progress almost feel normal, with the only substantial resistance coming from the two sheets of skin on the outer sides of the arm. The thick bone provides a bit more opposition to the saw, but no more than I'd normally encounter. Eventually the tool makes it to the empty space between Waylon's arm and the table.

"Well," I say as I pick up the smelling salts I usually use, and hope will work against whatever was in the tranquilizer darts, "at least I know that works." Not that I like being limited to only one tool. I push the needle into the exposed flesh where Waylon's arm used to be attached. His eyes, bloodshot and unnaturally red, snap open.

The room fills with a low rumble, centered on Waylon, which slowly builds to a loud roar. Waylon thrashes, or attempts to, but the plastic holding him down doesn't give him an inch of room. The only thing he can move is the stump under his right shoulder, which twitches and sprays blood in a wide arc that I sidestep. Just when I think it can't get any louder, it suddenly cuts off. Waylon stares at me, breathing hard, his teeth that he's filed to sharp points bared.

"Hello, Waylon," I start, before I'm cut off by another loud roar.

I shrug and pick up the hacksaw again, starting on Waylon's other shoulder. There's just no talking to some people.

* * *

><p>My head is spinning and my stomach is giving me an agonizing signal that I need to eat. There's no light letting me see where I am. I sit up slowly, getting ready to spring up and fight if I have to. As I move, I realize someone has removed my armour. I'm also not on the hard pavement I passed out on, but in a plush bed, with soft sheets wrapped around my legs. My eyes adjust, and I realize I'm in my bedroom at Wayne Manor.<p>

The door opens, spilling light across the bed, and Alfred enters, carrying a tray carrying coffee and toast.

"Ah, Master Wayne," Alfred smiles in relief, "You're awake."

"Alfred," I say, "what happened?"

Alfred places the tray on the stand next to the bed and, after a sharp intake of breath to allow him the split second he needs to compose his next words, he explains. "Miss Gordon called me last night to tell me that your heart rate had slowed to levels indicating unconsciousness and that you weren't answering her. Furthermore, she told me that you hadn't moved an inch from one spot in rather a bad neighbourhood for almost five minutes. She gave me your location and I picked you up."

"Fair enough." I dig into the toast on the silver tray, devouring half of it in one bite. "Get a needle and syringe," I say through the partially chewed bread. "We're going to need a blood sample from me as soon as possible."

"As eager as you are to bleed on the carpet, that won't be necessary," Alfred says patiently. "I've already taken the liberty and Miss Gordon has just called back with the results."

"Etorphine?"

"No, actually, although it was an animal tranquilizer. Xylazine."

I process this for a second before I shove the rest of the first piece of toast into my mouth and pick up the second one.

"Do you still believe this is the work of Zsasz's killer?" Alfred takes the opportunity to ask as I chew.

"Yes," I say, then swallow. "I also saw Harley Quinn there. It looks like the Joker is behind this one, although it's most likely someone else doing all the leg work. I also saw a dart hit Croc before I was hit. I'm guessing from that and the broken needle in the sewer that he had to change his M.O. to take down Croc. He probably bought the tranquilizer gun recently, maybe even last night or the day before. I bet I can guess where."

* * *

><p>The room is completely packed. Apparently most of the GCPD was invited to this particular briefing, with about as much explanation as I was given.<p>

"Any idea what this is about?" the man next to me, thin with short salt-and-pepper hair, asks.

"No idea," I shake my head.

"I've seen you around," he continues, forging ahead in the conversation. "You're in forensics, right?"

"Yeah."

"You know it's a big deal when they invite all the lab geeks," he jokes. I smile politely. "I'm David," he says, holding out his hand. "Trace analysis."

"Dexter," I answer as I shake his hand. "Blood spatter."

Our one-sided discussion is ended as a few extra cops, led by Commissioner Gordon, file into the room and proceed to the front.

"I'm sure you've been wondering why so many of you have been on-call for the past few hours," Gordon starts, "and we're letting you know now. It's been confirmed that Oswald Cobblepot, AKA the Penguin, has sold a large amount of weapons to the Joker."

The room fills with the sound of chatter as everyone processes this. It takes a few seconds for Gordon to quiet the room again. Just as he manages it, Bullock pipes up. "Are we takin' the Penguin in?" he asks.

"No, we're not," Gordon responds. As the room erupts into another uproar, he holds up his hands. "Not yet. We can't risk letting the Joker know what we know. For now, we're waiting for movement. Once that happens, we'll move in on both the Joker and the Penguin." Gordon looks around the room. "Any questions you have, I'll be taking them now."

"The Joker, the Penguin," David says to me as the room pushes forward, almost everyone trying to get Gordon's attention. "And I though Vegas was full of freaks."

I can't concentrate on any of the questions or Gordon's answers. I've been distracted since last night, wondering why Oswald wanted to meet me before selling me the gun. I'm surprised the gun was even sold to me, since I'm unknown and could easily be an undercover officer, let alone the fact that it was made obvious to me that Oswald was the one ultimately responsible for selling it. I came in from the street asking for a highly specialized weapon and they rolled out the red carpet.

I also have to wonder where the GCPD got this new information. I may not have as many connections as the local lab rats, but it's impossible not to hear new developments. This is completely out of left field.

It also seems too precise to be discovered without any arrests made, unless the information came from an informant.

Suddenly I realize three very disturbing things: Oswald is an informant, he reports to the Batman, and he thinks I'm a new super-criminal.

* * *

><p>I'm below Wayne Manor, contemplating my bat-suit, when one of the parts of the massive bank of computers along one wall beeps, alerting me to a call. I press a single key, and Oracle's face appears on the screen.<p>

"Oracle," I greet her with a smile.

"Hello, Bruce," she says, smiling back. "I've been going through any records I can find of every gun brought into the city."

"And?"

"All of the legitimately imported trank guns – anything used in a zoo or by animal control – are accounted for. As far as illegally sold ones go, that's a bit harder to track. No one brings in major shipments of that kind of weapon."

"Do you have any guesses?"

"Probably the same one you do." Oracle sighs. "The Penguin's known for having anything and everything someone could ask for. He probably has a few dart guns on hand. Other than that…" She trails off and shrugs.

I know I'm thinking the same thing as she is. If the gun used last night wasn't sold by Cobblepot, it could have been brought into Gotham by anyone. There are dozens of well-known weapon dealers in the city, and any gun they sell can trickle down to hundreds of potential small-time sellers. On top of that, literally any thug in the city could try to make a quick buck through locating and buying a gun for someone who wasn't familiar with other dealers, or simply sell something they already had and had gotten tired of.

"Thanks, Oracle."

"Good luck." Oracle reaches down and the screen goes black.

If Cobblepot sold the tranquilizer gun, this will lead me right to Zsasz and Croc's killer. If he didn't, this is a dead end.


	8. Chapter 8

Getting into the back hallways leading up into the upstairs of the Iceberg Lounge isn't too difficult. One precise shove into a guy holding a full drink, spilling it onto another testosterone-fueled patron just after I've already disappeared into the crowd, and a fight breaks out, drawing security away from the door at the back wall.

Navigating through the corridors to find Oswald's office is even easier, since I've already been through them once. This time I have to duck into a few empty rooms and down deserted branches off the main path to go undetected, but I still make it to the main office without any problems.

Closing the door silently behind me, I face the office again. This time it's not well-lit, presenting a cheery façade, but completely dark except for the red-tinged light streaming in through the giant window at the far end, the grid of metal holding the panes in place spread across the floor.

I make my way to the desk to search for something that will give me an idea of Oswald's schedule. I don't have time to follow him and learn when he's unprotected, since he could tell the Batman about our meeting last night at any time.

The desk, despite being enormous, doesn't have a single scrap of paper anywhere on, in or near it. It's apparently just for show. I look around the room for anything else that might give me some clues. All I can see is a large armoire and a single door – other than the one I used to come in – leaving the office to the left of the desk.

I check the armoire first. Unlike the desk, it seems to serve a purpose, containing dozens of expensive-looking fur coats. Like the desk, there's nothing useful to me inside. I head for the second door and open it, flicking the light switch on the inside of the room beside the door. It's a bathroom. I grit my teeth. There's absolutely nothing useful to me here. My only other option is to follow Oswald as constantly as I can, hoping his guards leave him unattended for long enough to give me an opportunity.

Suddenly there's a rattle at the door. I hear voices as the door begins to open.

"-to report, Mr. Cobblepot," someone says through the partially open door as I quickly step inside the bathroom and close the door as I turn off the lights. In the darkness, light from the office leaks in under the door. I put my back to the wall next to the hinges of the door to allow me to hear everything I can through the small crack between the door and the wall, and to give me a chance to surprise anyone who enters the room.

"Good, good," Oswald answers the man who spoke first, his voice getting louder as he approaches the desk. "With a little luck-"

Oswald is cut off by the sound of glass shattering.

* * *

><p>I tense as the office lights up. As soon as Cobblepot is visible through the huge window, I leap from the roof, spreading my cape and gliding across the street. I abruptly change the angle of my cape to catch more air, slowing down my body and swinging my feet underneath me so that they go through the wall of glass first.<p>

I land on the oversized desk, staying still for just long enough for my cape to settle around me and let Cobblepot's security know exactly who they're dealing with, before I leap off, kicking my boot up into the face of the one in front of me. It hits his chin with a satisfying crack and his head is thrown back. The rest of his body follows and he falls to the floor.

Behind me I hear the click of a gun, along with the rustling of fabric as the third member of Cobblepot's current security team tries fruitlessly to detach his gun from his holster, panicking as he fails, making him less likely to succeed. I spin around and vault over the desk, shoving the heel of my palm upwards, directly into the nose of the one who just cocked his gun. I feel bones splinter against my hand and warm blood start flowing freely, but I continue up. As my arm extends fully, I make a fist, grasping as much of the guard's hair as I can, and whip my arm back, slamming his forehead into the desk. I let go and he slumps to the floor.

The third guard manages to get his gun, but it slips from his fingers. He reaches down for it and I simply punch him in the back of the head, throwing him violently to the floor. He stays down. So do the other two. I turn my attention to Cobblepot.

"So," he says casually, smiling solicitously, "what can I do for you this time?"

"Sold anything interesting lately?"

"Why, no, not that I-" He stops, pretending something has just occurred to him. "I did remember to tell you about that sale to the Joker, didn't I?"

"Nice try." I grab him around the collar and pull him to one side, as if I'm about to slam him into the desk like one of his guards.

"Wait, wait, wait!" He throws his hands up. "I'll help you! I just need to know what you mean by interesting."

I let go of him. "Something that intrigued you," I clarify.

"You can't be more specific than that?"

"If you have that many interesting customers, maybe I should be paying you visits like this more often."

Cobblepot gulps. "That won't be necessary." He ponders my question for a second. "This being Gotham, I do have a lot of interesting encounters, but last night the most interesting thing would have to be the big-game hunter."

Something about that description seems like it's what I'm looking for. "Tell me about him."

"He came in asking about a tranquilizer gun."

"And you sold one to him."

"That's right." Cobblepot backs away, holding his hands up again. "It seemed a more benign than most other requests I get," he says defensively.

"I'm sure it did."

"Bruce!" Oracle's voice suddenly calls into my ear.

"Not now," I say, turning away and holding a hand to one of the ears on my cowl to let Cobblepot know I'm not talking to him.

"You need to know this!" Oracle insists. "The GPS you put on the Joker's weapons is moving. The move isn't happening tomorrow, it's tonight!"

I end the call and turn back to Cobblepot. "This isn't over," I growl before I jump out the window and glide down the street.

* * *

><p>The room on the other side of the bathroom door becomes silent. I heard every word of the conversation between Oswald and the Batman, and I have to say that while I'm not crazy about being called the big-game hunter, it's better than the Bay Harbour Butcher.<p>

On the other hand, maybe I should just be glad that the Batman left when he did.

As I breathe a sigh of relief, I hear footsteps approaching the door. It opens, hiding me from Oswald's view as he enters, and the light goes on. I hear water flow into the sink and splashing, probably of Oswald trying to calm down by wetting his face, as I edge around the door.

I silently step behind him as he hunches over the porcelain sink. He straightens, looking into the mirror, and his eyes dart to my reflection behind him for a split second before I press a needle into his neck.

* * *

><p>After I've radioed Gordon to let him know the weapons are on the move, and what the vehicle carrying them – a huge, white truck – looks like and where it is, there's nothing I can do but weave in and out of side streets close by. I can't follow the truck, unlike the unmarked police cruisers, since my own car is more conspicuous. I'm stuck hiding around the peripheries and listening to the chatter over the radio.<p>

"How do we know this is the right truck?" a gruff voice, Bullock's, says.

"Order came from above, so I gotta trust it," a voice I don't recognize responds.

"We know," Gordon tells him. "And that's all you need to know. Unless there's an emergency, stay silent."

I continue following the GPS signal for a few minutes. The radio stays silent. The silence should be reassuring, but I won't be satisfied until the Joker is safely in Arkham.

The truck, followed by the troop of unmarked police cars surrounding it, makes its way slowly. It's heading down one of Gotham's major streets, clogged with traffic. Almost no one is moving for a while, but then something clears the blockage and things begin moving a little faster.

"What's going on?" the voice I didn't recognize before says just as the vehicles begin to speed up.

"Shit," Bullock says, "the Joker's onto us."

"Keep your eyes on the right truck!" a third voice yells into the radio. "Everyone remember which one we started with?"

"Fuck that," Bullock growls. "Cut 'em all off. Now."

"Those weren't our orders," the first voice argues.

"They're your orders now," Bullock insists. "I'm the senior officer here, and things've changed. We need to contain this now!"

I growl to myself. Bullock should be sticking to the plan, no matter how the Joker has confused him. I make a sudden, ninety-degree turn, my distinctive car speeding towards the blip marking the GPS signal on my display screen.

The narrow alley gives way to the main street, and shows me what went wrong. The six lanes of the street are blocked off by black cars which are lighting up blue and red to clarify the fact that they are police cruisers. The alleyway I've just left is closed off by another, identical car, just after I race out of it. Further back, and at two more side streets, more cars block the way out.

The wide road has been turned into a parking lot. Passenger cars all around are honking, not knowing why they've been stopped and unaware of the massive amount of explosives nearby. Within the small area of about a city block are a dozen or more white trucks, all identical down to the license plates, clustered together in the point which my GPS signal indicates.

So this is how the Joker planned to stop anyone from following the weapons: by making it impossible to tell which truck is which if you stop paying attention for even a second. A massive shell game is exactly the Joker's style.

Suddenly, the horn on one of the trucks blares and doesn't become quiet. The truck starts moving forward, pushing its way through the cars in front of it, crumpling the backs of them and pushing them into the barricade ahead. The driver, evidently leaning into the horn and the gas pedal, is refusing to stay still and forcing his way out.

The pileup of cars he's pushing rams into the barrier right at the point where the noses of two cruisers meet. The flashing black cars swing outwards, opening like a door for the truck. Some of the drivers in the cars being used as battering rams take this opportunity to get out of the way, pulling over at the sides of the road, parting like the Red Sea for the truck, which surges forward as soon as the way ahead starts to clear.

Some of the cruisers also break free of the cordons, lights flashing and sirens blaring as the speed up, ordering the truck's driver to pull over through their PA system.

As the truck starts to speed up, I slam down on the gas, sending the Bat-mobile up onto the sidewalk and past the wall of police cars. In my more advanced vehicle it takes only a few seconds to get clear of the blockage and match the truck's speed.

The truck, trying to shake the cars giving chase, veers off at the next intersection, tilting and nearly falling over. One of the cruisers, taken by surprise by the sudden turn, doesn't brake in time and drives into the space between the two axels carrying the truck's payload. The hood of the car is ground beneath the truck's wheels as it continues, barely noticing the damage it just inflicted.

The road we've turned onto isn't gridlocked, but it's not deserted either. The truck's horn blares a few more times as it tries to weave. It manages to pass by a few cars easily, but then the driver tries to make it through a gap between two cars. The truck slows as a grinding sound fills the air and it scrapes along the edges of both cars, forcing them apart.

One of the cars darts away as the driver panics, sending it directly into another police cruiser and leaving only one other cruiser and myself tailing the truck.

We pass by an intersection. The truck continues going straight ahead. The driver must not be paying attention, since the street is blocked by traffic before any other exits. I follow closely, waiting for the driver's decision, hoping he stops.

He disappoints me. The truck's horn blares two more times, as if the cars ahead have room to get out of the way. Somehow, the driver manages to summon more speed out of the cumbersome truck.

I race forward, pushing the Bat-mobile to the limit and pressing a button nestled in the controls. Razor sharp spikes eject six inches out of the rims and I speed past the truck, cutting in close enough to shred the tires. As I pass the truck I spin the Bat-mobile, sending it into a one-hundred and eighty degree turn. I zoom back past the truck, ripping into the tires on the passenger side.

I turn and skid to a halt after passing the truck for the second time. The rubber of the tires spins away from the truck's rims, leaving them bare. The truck slams down into the ground, the metal of the rims and the back of the truck scrape the pavement, sending up fountains of sparks.

Despite the massive damage, the driver tries to continue. The truck starts to tip as it nears the cars ahead and the driver attempts a U-turn despite the sheer size of his vehicle. The truck manages to get perpendicular to the street, again tilting dangerously, before it tilts too far and simply rolls over onto the cars in front of it.

I stop my car and get out, walking towards the truck. The driver side door of the truck pops up a little before slamming back down. It's pushed up a second time, this time staying open a little, propped up by a hand.

I smell gasoline as I get closer. The backs of the cars crushed by the truck are leaking fuel, and gas is puddling beneath the truck. I keep my eyes open for any flame as I climb up onto the truck and open the door. The driver, a punk with a buzz cut, stares up at me in fear. I grab him by his shirt and throw him onto the street, where he rolls to a stop.

I jump down and pick him up by the shirt, slamming him into the truck and letting him see the gas.

"Tell me where the Joker is!" I demand.

He struggles, kicking at me. "We need to get out of here," he screams. "The gas-"

"Tell me where the Joker is!" I repeat.

"This thing is gonna blow!"

"Tell me!"

He stops struggling, looking at me intensely. "Oh man," he says. "You're fuckin' crazy. It's true what they say. You went nuts and killed Zsasz."

"What?" I'm honestly taken aback by this.

"You've snapped man. That's why you don't care if we both die here."

Is that the new rumour on the streets? That I was the one to end Zsasz's life? I'm not happy about it, but it might give me some leverage to play into the driver's fears and let him think it's true.

"You're right," I say. "I don't care. Now tell me where the Joker is if you want to live."

"I don't know!" he screams, starting to struggle again.

"He'll be wherever you were supposed to bring the truck."

"No he won't," the driver shakes his head madly. "He was tipped off. We were supposed to move tomorrow, but then everything got changed."

I growl in frustration and slam the punk against the truck again before I start dragging him towards the Bat-mobile. Cobblepot will pay for this.


	9. Chapter 9

Hey all! Sorry about taking so long, I was out of town for a few days. I'll try to make up for it this week :P

So, without any further ado...

* * *

><p>Oswald Cobblepot, also known as the Penguin due to his beak-like nose and penchant for tuxedoes, wakes up with a start as I cut open his cheek with a scalpel. His eyes open wide and he tries his best to look around the room, but quickly finds he can't move his head. His eyes finally settle on me.<p>

"You!" he says, recognizing me. "What's going on?"

"I think it's pretty self-explanatory," I point out. I move a few paces, my hand hovering over my knives, considering which one to use. "You're an exception for me," I continue, making conversation. "I don't normally bother with someone who hasn't killed anyone. Well," I look up at Oswald, "not directly anyways. Actually, let's be honest, not that I can prove."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Oswald barks, trying and failing to sound in control.

"Let me refresh your memory." I pick up a stainless steel butcher knife. "Not only do I know from personal experience that you sell weapons to just about anybody, but I know that you sold a substantial number of them to the Joker. Hardly the most responsible person to trust with something like that."

"Aha." Cobblepot actually calms down a little. "So that's what this is about." I lean against the table behind me, opting to let Oswald talk. "Who sent you then? Maroni? Falcone? Someone new who needs a foothold?"

Oswald's decided I've been sent by someone in Gotham's far-reaching underworld to find out where the Joker is. It makes sense from his perspective. I've heard the Joker is hated by the mob, and if someone wanted more territory, he'd be the most acceptable one to target. No one's allied with him; no one will defend him or retaliate on his behalf. None of that changes the fact that Oswald is wrong, but it might help me.

I still don't say anything though. Sometimes the best way to get someone to talk is to just wait. It always surprises me how often my victims think my kill-rooms are an appropriate confessional.

"I hate to disappoint you, my boy," Oswald chuckles casually, "especially seeing the trouble you've gone to in order to frighten me. But as of tonight, there's nothing I can tell you. The Joker's weapon shipment is on the move by now, and it's either made it to its destination or been stopped by the Bat. I haven't the slightest idea where the Joker is. He wouldn't trust me with that." He pretends to be wracking his brain for a way to help. "I'm sure he'll want more soon though. I can promise to get in contact with you as soon as I know something. That is, of course," he pauses for effect, "if you let me go."

"No thanks." I push up off the table holding the knives, walking around Oswald, trying to decide where to make the first slice.

"No thanks?" Oswald repeats, confused. His eyes open wide again. He thinks he's made another brilliant realization. "Did you think I was about to describe you to the Bat? Is that what this is about? I can assure you, all my transactions are completely confidential."

"Unless the Joker is involved?"

"Well, that's a special case. The Joker is a monster."

"And yet you sold an arsenal to him."

"He forced me to!" Oswald tries desperately. "That's why I went to the Bat!"

"So the Joker's the only one you have a problem giving guns to?" I ask. "I guess everyone else is using them for more noble causes?"

"What do you want from me? My silence? I promise you I won't say anything!"

"I know you won't."

"You'll let me go?" Relief creeps into Oswald's voice.

"No."

"Then what do you want?"

Haven't I made it obvious at this point? "To kill you."

Oswald goes silent, but starts shaking. He looks at me in terror, finally seeing me for what I am. His silence ends when I press the butcher knife into his substantial thigh, slicing through the thick layers of fat and quickly reaching muscle and bone. Blood gushes out as I sever the major arteries of the leg, taking less than a second to pool and spill out onto the floor.

* * *

><p>Cobblepot's office is dark. I expected that. He wouldn't want to use it as long as it has a gaping hole instead of a window. That hole, combined with the fact that the office should be empty, makes it a perfect entrance point.<p>

The office isn't empty though. A look through my infrared goggles disproves that assumption. Watching the person in the office, I decide that going in won't set off any alarms. Whoever they are, they're sitting casually on Cobblepot's desk in the dark. They can't be part of the Iceberg Lounge's security.

I switch to my night-vision goggles and then, like before, I jump off the building I'm perched on and glide across the street, swooping into the office. My flight continues past the desk and I land close to the door, blocking it for whoever else is inside. Although I'm nearly silent and blend into the darkness, the wind rushing by the intruder will be enough to tell them I'm here.

I turn around to look at the person on the desk as I stand. He's a man, dressed in a three-piece suit, tailored to fit his trim body. He's sitting with his legs crossed, dangling them over the side of the desk. His head is down, his face hidden by a bowler hat, but the cane he's playing with, topped with a question mark, tells me all I need to know.

"Nigma," I growl, addressing him. "Where's Cobblepot?"

He continues to spin his cane, looking down at the floor. "Gone, missing, in absentia," he responds before he finally meets my gaze. "He apparently disappeared off the face of the planet just over an hour ago."

"Why are you here?"

The cane stops spinning. "I'm here on business."

"Business?" I repeat. My eyes narrow. "You're here to buy from Cobblepot."

"Tut tut, Dark Knight, moving so quickly to baseless accusations." Nigma hops up off the desk and begins to walk around it, stepping carefully around broken glass. "You see, the Penguin, for obvious reasons, would prefer not to have police milling around his precious Iceberg Lounge. Ergo, if he has some questions he needs answered, he calls me." Nigma crouches down to look at a spot of blood on the carpet. "Hypothetically, if several of his, for lack of a better term, hired apes, were to suddenly find the Penguin absent without leave…"

"They get you to find him."

"Precisely." Nigma stands and turns to look at me. "I've figured out what happened here easily enough-"

"By asking the witnesses-"

"No," Nigma stops me, brandishing his cane. "Eye-witness testimony is untrustworthy. People lie, their imperfect minds play tricks, but evidence…" He trails off, turning back to the scene. "The first thing to happen was the window shattering," he proclaims grandly. "Someone burst in, and proceeded to dispatch with the Penguin's security, there, there and there." He points to each spot where Cobblepot's guards hit the floor with his cane in the order that they fell. He looks back at me again slyly. "I'm guessing that was you?"

I don't react, but I am a little impressed he got the order right. Still, just about anyone in Gotham might assume this was my handiwork.

"After that, you left." He shrugs. "Even you can't be in two places at once. Do you want me to tell you the rest?"

"That depends," I say. "Do you want to keep all your teeth?"

Nigma holds up a hand. "Alright, no need to get touchy. After your, well, assault, the Penguin went to clean up." Nigma points to an open door leading to a bathroom with his cane. "And then… Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"He vanished completely. No one saw him, or anyone else, leave. Either he left of his own volition, or he was abducted almost surgically."

Surgically. That sounds familiar.

"There's one other thing that I'm going to let you in on as a gesture of good-will," Nigma continues. "I've investigated the office, and I know the Penguin has had recent dealings with the Joker."

"Is that so?"

"Don't patronize me Dark Knight, I know you already know that. Just remember, I did say this was a gesture of good-will. A peace offering. Something that will convince you to let me go on my merry way and try to keep you in the loop."

"Get to the point."

"Yes, well, since I've been here I've spoken to a few of my… associates, to see if I can't get some information even you wouldn't be privy to. Since the Joker was working on something secretive that the Penguin knew about, I've already deduced that the Joker was the one who wanted the Penguin silenced. At the moment, it seems no one knows where the Joker is, but I have a friend of a friend who tells me the Joker is working with others, others who might have more information."

"Spit it out, Nigma."

"The Joker, for whatever reason, has been working with the Mad Hatter." Nigma pauses, smug. "I bet you hadn't gotten that far yet."

I mull this over. Nigma's conclusion is wrong – the Joker wasn't involved with Cobblepot's disappearance. I do have to admit, at least to myself anyways, that I didn't know about Hatter. "Do you know where he is?" I ask.

"Not yet," Nigma shakes his head. "But I bet I can find him before you."

I don't like letting Nigma go. But he's given me a clue that might lead me to the Joker, and he may go further with it. I turn and stride out of the office, crushing glass into the carpet. "Let me know if you find anything."

"Oh I will, Dark Knight. I will."

* * *

><p>It's after midnight when I unlock the door to the motel room the Gotham City Police Department is graciously paying for. I step inside and stop. There's light coming from beneath the bathroom door, and I know I turned off all the lights when I left.<p>

I move forward quietly and listen. I can't hear any movement from inside the small bathroom next to the entrance. I place my hand on the doorknob and silently turn it before I burst inside, ready to surprise whoever is inside.

The bathroom is empty, but there's fog on the mirror and wet footprints on the floor, leading back out into the short hallway to the rest of the room. I quickly step back outside and turn to inspect the rest of the room, but before I can, something hits me with the force of a speeding truck, knocking me flat to the ground. Whatever hit me lands square on my stomach, making it difficult to breathe.

I look up, trying to make out what hit me in the sparse light coming from the bathroom, when the thing leans over and I realize it's not a 'what' but a 'who'. Harley Quinn's bright blue eyes stare down at me, wrapped in a towel, her hair wet and dripping onto my chest. Her left arm, out of its sling but still in a cast, has obviously healed enough to not be completely useless, as she's using it to hold up her towel.

"Hi there, Dexter!" she greets me cheerfully.

At first I just groan, struggling to speak with her weight on my diaphragm. "How do you know my name?" I finally manage to get out.

"Oh, I've been learnin' all about you while you were out," she explains. "F'rinstance, I found out you work for the cops. Ya think they'd be interested ta know about what happened to Croc?"

I shove Harley off of me. "What do you want?" I ask.

"Just… a favour," she replies as we both stand. "See, I've been doin' some mental arithmetic, and I realized that I helped you twice, and you only helped me once, so the way I see it, you owe me one."

I consider that for a second. She pulled me off the streets and stopped me from bleeding out, I saved her from Oswald's thugs, and she helped me lure Waylon out of the sewers. She does have a point. On top of that, helping her might build enough trust to get her to lead me to the Joker. "Fair enough," I say. "That still doesn't tell me what you want."

"I was gettin' to that. Anyways, while you were off playin' with Croc, the Bat was sneakin' around in my apartment, which means I got no place to stay."

"You're not staying here," I tell her flatly.

"That wasn't what I was gonna propose," she corrects me. "I want a place on my own. One in a nice neighbourhood where everyone knows not to ask questions. And I want the rent paid up for three months up front."

"There's no way I'm giving you that kind of money."

"That's the beauty of it," she smiles happily. "You don't have to. I have a place all picked out that already fits all my requirements. There's just one problem."

I catch on. "Somebody's already living there."

"Yup," she nods. "So I just need you to go in, and make him disappear."

"Why would you think I would do that?"

"Well you did it to Zsasz and Croc, so obviously-"

"What are you talking about?" I interrupt her.

She smiles mischievously. "You mean how do I know about Zsasz?" she asks. "I'm not an idiot, ya know. Most people think I am, but I can put two and two together. Last night the Bat asked me why the Joker killed Zsasz, and I got ta thinkin', why would he connect Mistah J to that? Then I realized he was sayin' that Zsasz's death and you huntin' down Croc were connected, and he only thought it was Mistah J on accounta my presence there."

I don't react, instead staring darkly at Harley. I have to admit I'm impressed, even in my irritation.

"So," Harley smiles cheerfully again, "will ya do it?"

"I can't do that," I interrupt her.

"I… have standards," are the words I finally settle on.

"Standards?" she repeats, perplexed. "Whaddaya mean?"

I briefly consider telling her, but decide against it. I want her to trust me. Telling her she's a potential victim probably isn't the best approach. "You're going to have to tell me who it is," I finally say.

"Awww, why do ya wanna take all the surprise outta life?" she giggles. "It's the Mad Hatter."

The Mad Hatter, also known as Jervis Tetch. From what I know of him, he has an obsession with Alice in Wonderland, which he expresses by kidnapping children and forcing them to act out scenes using dangerous combinations of drugs, leaving behind a trail of over-doses and tiny corpses. I'd given up hope on finding him, and now he's being given to me.

"I can be ready tomorrow night," I answer quickly. "You can stay here as long as you don't draw any attention to yourself."

Harley snaps her right hand to her forehead in a salute. "Aye aye!" she exclaims happily.

* * *

><p>It's almost morning. There's nothing more I can do right now to search for Cobblepot, so I decide to spend the last few minutes of darkness seeing if Quinn has changed her mind about talking.<p>

Her apartment is dark. She could be sleeping, but she, like most of her fellow criminals, tends to keep a nocturnal schedule. I head in through a window as I did last night.

Nothing has moved since I was here. Not only that, but an extremely thin layer of dust coats everything. She hasn't been home since late last night. I think back. I moved a few things, looking for clues as to where she might have gone. Maybe she realized I was here.

Maybe she was feeling paranoid after seeing me in the area last night.

Suddenly, an unconscious thought that I didn't realize was nagging me clicks into focus. Last night, when I'd seen Quinn baiting Croc, I connected Croc and Zsasz and then assumed the Joker was behind it. Why else would Quinn be involved?

But when I spoke to Cobblepot, he mentioned something about a hunter. He didn't mention the Joker at all. Cobblepot had no reason not to sell out the Joker any further, so that means that either he didn't know the Joker was involved – or the Joker isn't involved at all.

I leave Quinn's apartment. She's working with someone else now, making her my best lead on finding both the Joker and Cobblepot's hunter.


	10. Chapter 10

I try to work out the kinks in my back as I step on the elevator next to Abby.

"Rough night?" she asks, with a wink.

"You could say that," I reply. It wouldn't have been so bad, since I'm used to late nights. What I'm not used to is sleeping on the floor, but with Harley's broken arm, it seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do.

As the elevator door opens to the Major Crimes Unit, everyone, with the exceptions of Abby and I, rushes off in one direction. I notice the rest of the floor is nearly empty, with everyone crowding around one door.

"C'mon," Abby says, leaving the small box.

"What's going on?" I wonder aloud as I jog a few paces to catch up to her.

"Are you serious?" Abby asks. At my blank look, she continues. "Didn't you see the news last night? A truck full of weapons heading to the Joker was chased down by Batman."

We reach the horde trying to push into the small room. I can barely see over any heads, and Abby is dwarfed.

"I'll never see anything from back here," she moans.

"Everyone nonessential, back to your desks," a voice cuts through the din from the centre of the crowd. I identify it as Commissioner Gordon's. "If you need to be here, you know who you are."

I hear a few more groans, including another from Abby, as most of the mob disperses. I turn around to walk away and a black mass hits my shoulder, brushing me aside. My eyes follow the Batman as the rest of the crowd parts in front of him.

As I walk back to my desk, I wonder if the Batman has taken off his mask and armour since I heard him beating up Oswald's guards. Doesn't he have a day job?

* * *

><p>The briefing quickly devolves into an argument. Bullock started defending his decision to cut off the trucks as soon as the door closed, and Gordon has been arguing on my behalf that now we've lost our biggest lead on the Joker.<p>

"What would you have had me do?" Bullock demands. "Have my guys split up and follow every truck?"

"You were given more than enough cruisers to do so," Gordon points out firmly.

"You could have waited for them to separate," I interject. "I could have let you know which one was the right one."

"Well lah-di-dah." Bullock turns toward me. "And how was I supposed to know you could do that?" he asks, jabbing his finger at me.

"I told you when the truck started moving and where to head it off, didn't I?"

Bullock stops. He doesn't have a good response to this. "Look, all I knew was that there was a truck that could supply an army heading to the Joker," he says, changing tactics. "I did what I had to do to make sure it didn't get there."

"We could have found the Joker last night," Gordon barks. "He could be sitting in his cell in Arkham right now, instead of out there," he gestures to the map of Gotham, "still planning God-knows-what!"

"Yeah, or he could've sent someone else to pick up the truck so he could make sure it wasn't followed, like the driver already told us!" Bullock bellows back, before apparently realizing he's trying to shout down his superior and quiets. "The Joker was tipped off. We didn't have a shot last night."

"We didn't know that," I growl.

"No, we didn't," Gordon says, turning and shaking his head. "On top of that, you disobeyed direct orders."

"But now we have a baker's dozen of scumbags, sitting in lock-up, waiting to sing like little canaries," Bullock cuts in, trying to continue his rant.

"Which is the only reason you're not suspended right now," Gordon states.

The room goes quiet in response. Bullock's fists clench in anger. No one other than Gordon dares make eye contact, having just heard something they know should be private.

Finally Gordon breaks the silence, addressing the entire room. "Our best lead right now is Bullock's baker's dozen. I want you all looking into their records. Find someone close to them, someone who might know where they've been spending all their time." He nods, and everyone takes it as their signal to start filing out of the room. Gordon focuses back on Bullock. "You'll be interviewing them," he tells Bullock. "Don't come back to me until you have something."

Bullock slinks out of the room.

"You think any of them'll talk?" Gordon asks me once the room is empty.

"Some of them will want to," I admit, "but I don't think any of them will know anything useful. The Joker will have made sure of that."

* * *

><p>At this point, I'm used to slews of people randomly running by my desk, off to another emergency. Emergencies are constant in Gotham.<p>

Each time I try to listen as officers rush by, hoping to learn something that will intrigue me, or help me to find someone I'd like to meet. Both the Miami Metro and Gotham City Police Departments would be embarrassed by the number of people who've ended up strapped to one of my tables just because their officers weren't too careful about case-related information.

This time though, I hear something that sets me on edge, and makes me glad it's nearly the end of the day. As a trio of uniforms breezes past me, I hear "amber alert" and "Hatter".

I know it's a bad idea, and normally I hate getting roped into helping someone move, but right now I'm glad I agreed to help Harley.

I glance over at the clock next to my bed. It's six in the evening.

* * *

><p>After the briefing at the GCPD building, I returned to Wayne Manor, finally peeled off my armour, caked with the sweat of a long night, and collapsed into bed. It looks like I've slept for most of the day, but that's alright; I get my best work done at night.<p>

I roll over and switch on the plasma screen TV hung on the wall across from me. GNN, the Gotham News Network, comes on immediately. It's all I ever watch.

"-and now speculation is arising that the Batman himself may be responsible," a blonde, female news anchor says, a graphic picture of Zsasz's head that someone managed to slip past crime scene tape to take inserted to the right of her head. The picture quickly zips off-screen. "In other news, a police operation almost ended in tragedy last night. We go now live to Dan Wentworth on the scene. Dan?"

"Thanks Diane," a young, black reporter in a suit, his head shaven, says as the feed switches. He's out on the street, near the spot where I sliced the tires of the truck carrying the Joker's weapons. "Last night, this street was the setting for a massive accident, as a semi-truck rolled over onto several cars, injuring three, including six-year-old Lisa Brookeridge. Witnesses on the scene say that they saw a black vehicle driven by the Batman, popularly known as the Bat-mobile, destroy the tires of the truck, causing this accident."

There's a knock at the door of my bedroom. I hit mute.

"Come in," I call out.

The door opens to reveal Alfred. "Ah, Master Wayne, you're awake." Alfred glances at the TV. I can tell from his expression that he instantly knows what this report is about. "I hope you're not paying any attention to this crass sensationalism."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Good," he says with a nod. "Now, I have dinner prepared. If you wish, I can bring some up for you."

"That won't be necessary, Alfred," I step out of bed, grabbing a robe. My stomach is demanding food, but I'm barely paying attention as I try to plan my next move. I'm not going to deal with Quinn tonight. She may be my best lead in two separate cases, but I won't get anywhere by trying to search Gotham for her. I'll put the word out that I'm looking for her and get Oracle to update me on any sightings and see if anything comes up.

I can only hope she decides to wear her extremely conspicuous costume soon.

As I start to lead the room, I see the news change out of the corner of my eye. I turn the sound back on.

"-city-wide amber alert is in effect, as eight-year-old Cady Williams and her older brother, nine-year-old Jonah, have gone missing. They were last seen waiting for their mother to pick them up outside their school. Some witnesses have reported seeing Jervis Tetch, also known as the Mad Hatter, in the area, but his involvement has not been confirmed."

I turn off the TV. "I'm sorry to skip another meal," I announce to Alfred, "but I need to find those kids."

"With all due respect, sir, you'll be more useful to those children with a full stomach," Alfred points out. "I'll bring something downstairs for you."

"Thank you, Alfred."

* * *

><p>I've been trying to vary where I buy the reams of plastic sheeting I use, but I don't think the teenager working the cash register, his eyes blood-shot with prominent veins, was too interested, even though I bought enough to last me until I leave Gotham. Still, I leave the supplies in my car as I leave it parked just outside my motel room, and head inside to get everything else I need.<p>

I look around as I enter. I don't see Harley, but the door to the bathroom is closed and I can hear movement behind it. I put down the bag I have slung over my shoulder than contains the kit I need to examine crime scenes, and grab another, similar bag from the closet. It's already filled with dozens of different blades for all possible needs, as well as a syringe and small bottle of M-99.

I take out the syringe and push the needle through the rubber stopper on the top of the bottle, preparing the dose for my encounter with Jervis. I'm sure I had more tranquilizer than this, and as I watch the amount of tranquilizer decrease, I wonder if I'll have enough to last me until I leave Gotham. I don't have a way to buy any more until I get back to Miami.

I briefly consider asking Deb to Fedex me the spare bottle in my apartment. I don't think that would go over well.

I slip the syringe back into its outside pocket of the bag and sling it over my shoulder as I hear the bathroom door open behind me. I turn to see if Harley is ready to go and do a double-take.

Harley is wearing a skin-tight black and red leotard, with ruffs around her neck and wrists, her face covered in white make-up with black lipstick, and a black mask that does nothing to hide her identity, all topped with a jester hat. Subtle.

"You're not wearing that," I state bluntly.

"I beg to diffah," she grins.

"I'm not doing this if you're wearing that."

"Alright," she shrugs. "I don't mind stayin' in."

We stand there, trying to stare each other down, for a full ten seconds. She looks like she's perfectly fine with waiting until tomorrow, but I know that each second is crucial, since Jervis just kidnapped two new playmates. That, and I really want to kill him.

"Fine," I sigh, "but you have to stay out of sight."

Harley bounces up and down a few times before skipping out to the car. This is a terrible idea.

* * *

><p>It's dark by the time I have my armour on and race out of the secret entrance of the Bat-cave, hidden deep in the woods behind Wayne Manor. I press a few buttons on the dashboard, and a secure communications channel with Oracle is opened.<p>

"Oracle," I say, "do you have any information on Tetch's location?"

"I'm sending you the address of the school the Williams children were taken from," she responds, "and I'm looking into the ownership of the houses nearby, but Bruce?" she continues, "everything checks out so far. If Mad Hatter is hiding more than a few blocks away-"

"I know Oracle." If Tetch made sure to kidnap the children far from where he's actually staying, he'll be difficult to find. "Just update me if you find anything."

"I'll try my best," she says, and the line goes dead.

I speed towards the school, hoping a thorough search of the area will lead me to those children before it's too late.


	11. Chapter 11

"Would you stay down?"

Harley slouches against the seat in response. "I'm just tryin' ta point out the place," she pouts. "It's right in fronta us, in case ya wanted ta know."

"And you're absolutely sure?" It doesn't seem like the type of place one of Gotham's most wanted would be hiding in, even if the area looks right. I'm parked across from a row of townhouses that look like they were built around a century ago, not that I'm particularly interested in the architecture. Most of them are dark and decrepit, with broken glass in the window panes that aren't covered by plywood, and look totally abandoned. Except for the one directly across the street.

That one is maintained, with flowers carefully planted on either side of the path leading to the front door. The only thing that seems suspicious is the large bay window out front. It glows a little, but looks like it's been covered in paint in an attempt to prevent light from escaping.

"Yeah, this is it!" Harley confirms, nodding enthusiastically. "Hatter's been holed up in here for weeks."

"I'm going in," I say as I open the car door. I fix Harley with a dark stare. "Stay in here and stay down."

"Sheesh, I get it already."

I cross the street, pulling a pick and torsion wrench out of my pocket. I kneel by the front door and, as I listen for footsteps, I push the pick in, deftly maneuvering it under the tumblers as I insert the wrench. As the tumblers are pushed up and out of the way, I twist the wrench, unlocking the door, which opens obligingly.

I don't close the door behind me as I step into the front hallway, instead leaving it open a crack. The hallway is unlit, but light streams in through a doorway just a few feet ahead that looks like it should connect to the room containing the bay window I saw from outside. It's just enough light to discern a few details of the décor.

I spot a few of the illustrations from Alice in Wonderland hung on the walls, along with a clock stopped at three o' clock. I wonder if it's supposed to be tea time. Not that I would know. It looks like the right place, anyways.

I move carefully to the open door and peer around the wall. What I see only increases my desire to kill Jervis slowly.

The room is decorated to look like a prim and proper English parlour, with delicate china sitting on small mahogany side-tables and rose-covered wall-paper. A small round table sits in the centre of the room, set with three tea-cups on saucers and a small tea-pot in the middle.

Two children sit at the table. The boy is dressed in a waistcoat, and a rabbit mask covers his face. The girl is wearing a blue dress with a white hair-band. I can't see the boy's face, but the girl looks zoned-out, her eyes glazed. Based on that, and the pair's stillness, I think they've been drugged.

One more person sits at the table, their back to me. It's a small man, small enough that his legs dangle almost as much as the kids'. He's wearing a massive top hat with a price written on paper and stuck inside the brim. Jervis Tetch.

I stick the cap covering the needle in my mouth, pulling it off as I step forward. As I get closer, I hear Jervis cooing to the kids, telling them to drink their tea. They both do as they're told, picking up the tea cups and taking small sips before placing the cups back in their saucers, their eyes never focusing on anything.

"No, no, no," Jervis admonishes them. "Like I showed you before. Like this."

The girl's eyes focus on Jervis, who leans forward and picks up his cup. Just as I get within striking distance, her eyes flicker to me for a fraction of a second. Jervis whirls around, and I duck just in time to avoid the tea cup hurled at my head. It shatters against the wall behind me, staining the wall-paper with a dripping spray of tea.

Before Jervis can do anything else, I've stabbed the needle into his carotid artery and pushed the plunger down. He goes limp immediately.

I re-cap the needle and drop it into my pocket before I remove one of my leather gloves. I remove the rabbit mask from the boy's face. His expression is as blank as the girl's, and they share similar features. Siblings, maybe? I press two fingers to his neck. His pulse is strong, despite whatever drugs Jervis gave him to ensure his compliance. I move to the girl, checking her pulse as well. It's there, but much slower.

"See? Didn't I tell ya?" Harley's voice says from behind me.

I stand and turn. "I hope no one saw you coming over here."

"Nope," she beams, "I was quick as a bunny. Or a white rabbit." Harley punctuates this with a kick to Jervis' sleeping form. I can't help but think it's a bit of a wasted effort while he can't feel anything. "So, what are ya gonna do with the body?"

"He's not dead," I correct her, "just unconscious. I have to get some things from my car and set up before I can do anything."

"I'm not even gonna ask. So, anything I can do ta help?"

I'm about to tell her no, before I glance back at the kids. "Actually," I start, "there is something." I toss her my car keys before continuing. "These kids might need medical attention. Take them to a hospital. Make sure they make it inside before you leave."

Harley heaves a deep sigh. "Fine," she says as she rolls her eyes.

"And Harley?" I lock eyes with her. "I really like to kill people who have killed children, and if they don't make it to an emergency room, I'm going to consider anything that happens to them your fault."

"Sheesh, why ya gotta be so serious all the time? I said I'd do it."

I help Harley shuttle the kids into the rental car, and my supplies out of it, and watch as she leaves. Now to deal with Jervis.

* * *

><p>I've been cruising around the neighbourhood of the Williams siblings' school for an hour now. It's an upscale neighbourhood where each house has at least two-stories and a huge yard, although there are none of the sprawling estates of the Palisades.<p>

The upside of the large properties is that it's allowed Oracle to look into the ownership of all of the houses in a wide radius around the school, due to the amount of space between each house. The downside is that these are not the types of places in which Tetch, or anyone else buying from the Broker, would want to stay.

Finally, I leave the Bat-mobile hidden in some bushes by the school itself. If the children were abducted from here, there may be something here, something to lead me to Tetch. After a quick sweep of the area, I find footprints in the moist soil of an overgrown patch that provides a view of the school. The footprints are almost as small as a child's, but judging from the imprint the soles left, the shoes would be more formal than those a parent would send a child to school in, and more old-fashioned than any child would want to wear.

I examine the small area surrounding the footprints more carefully, but nothing useful is there. Finally, I take a soil sample directly from one of the footprints. Trace chemicals dropped by the shoe could narrow down Tetch's location, but it will take some time to analyze.

I growl in frustration. Each second that ticks by puts those children in more danger, and I have no leads.

"Bruce?" Oracle's voice says into my ear.

"Oracle," I respond with relief, "do you have anything for me?"

"Yes," she says slowly, "but I'm not sure what it means. The Williams children have just shown up at an emergency room in West Harlow." She pauses for a second. "Bruce, the security camera footage shows Harley Quinn dropping them off."

* * *

><p>Jervis's eyes snap open as I slice open his cheek and rivulets of blood stream out.<p>

"Where have you taken me," he asks, his eyes wide with terror. "What is to be?"

I pause. There's no way that was on purpose. "Pretty much exactly what it looks like."

Jervis struggles, trying to look around, but his head, like the rest of his body, is immobile. "Why would you want to hurt a poor, Mad Hatter? Please try to reconsider your choice in this matter!"

Okay, maybe it was on purpose. "You've caused a lot of suffering, Jervis," I tell him. "The world will be a better place without you."

"My aim wasn't to hurt, but only to be nice, to all those Alices, March Hares and Dormice!"

That's really starting to creep me out. "No, but you hurt them anyways."

Jervis lets out a sob, apparently having run out of poetry.

"Kinky!" says a chipper voice from behind me.

I turn around to see Harley standing there, looking around at all the plastic sheeting covering the walls of Jervis's cellar, and, in the centre of it all, Jervis himself, naked and held down by cellophane. "This really isn't a sex thing," I manage to groan, massaging the bridge of my nose.

"Oh," she says, nodding knowingly, "I get it. This is one of those power-differential thingies."

I open my mouth to correct her again, but what can I say? She's right about that.

"Ah, the lovely Harley Quinn," Jervis says with desperation. "Here to help me out of this mess I'm in?"

"Is there a way to get him to stop doing that?" I ask Harley.

"What, the rhymin'? He does that whenever he gets freaked out." She shrugs. "All you can do is ignore 'im, gag 'im, or kill 'im."

All three it is then. I grab a rag and shove it into his mouth. Jervis tries to protest, his words still using a cadence that suggests rhyming, but he's muffled and unintelligible.

"Is there something in the water around here?" I finally ask what I've been thinking for weeks.

"Nah," Harley replies, "I'm like, ninety-nine percent sure those rumahs about insanity-causin' toxins in the water supply are just stories."

I'm only drinking bottled water until I get back to Miami. "Are you going to get out of here?" I ask Harley.

"And miss seeing' what you do to this creepy bastard? Screw that!"

"If you're sure about that…" I pick up a butcher knife. "Now, where should I start?"

"I got a few suggestions." Harley grins evilly.

* * *

><p>Despite the fear in their eyes, the nurses all point me in the right direction. Within minutes, I'm entering the third floor room that holds the Williams children. Their parents have yet to arrive.<p>

Jonah, the older one, looks up at me as I arrive. Cady, who I've heard had a more dangerous dose, is still sleeping. I approach Jonah, trying to keep my posture as non-threatening as possible.

"You!" he exclaims excitedly as I enter, his eyes lighting up. "You're Batman!"

I nod, smiling as I crouch next to his bed. "That's right," I say, "and I'm trying to find the person who took you and your sister."

He glances towards Cady's bed nervously. "She's going to be okay, right?"

I nod again. "She'll be fine. What can you remember about tonight?"

"Not much," he answers, "it's all kind of hazy."

"Anything you can think of could be helpful," I encourage him.

"Well," he says slowly, thinking, "I remember him dressing us up, and then he made us drink this tea. It tasted weird..."

"And then?"

"And then... I remember being carried to a car. And then I was here."

"Can you tell me anything about who carried you to the car?"

"He was wearing black gloves..." Jonah looks at me sadly. "I'm sorry," he says, "that's all I can remember."

"That's okay," I reassure him. "You did great."

* * *

><p>"All that," Harley marvels, gesturing to the walls which were, a few minutes ago, obscured by blood soaked plastic sheets, "down to just three little garbage bags. I don't get it though. Why go to all that trouble?"<p>

"Because most prisons aren't revolving doors like Arkham," I answer as I tie the last bag shut. "You don't get caught if no one is even sure a crime was committed."

"If you say so," Harley says with a shrug. "I wouldn't have the patience. Still," she says, nearing me as I stand, "it's nice to meet a man who actually cleans up after himself for once."

She slinks up to me, getting within inches and batting her eyes. Was killing Jervis foreplay for her?

"I've got to go," I say, backing up a step.

"Aww, why the rush?" She smiles up at me. "Why not stick around and have a little fun?"

"You mean besides the body I need to get rid of? How about the fact that you're wearing clown makeup?"

"What's your point?"

I should probably be diplomatic about this. "It's less than appealing." Smooth.

Harley frowns and turns around, heading out of the cellar.

"Harley…" I try to say to her retreating back, even though I'm not really sure how to continue.

"Don't worry about it Dexter," she says coolly, "you don't need to do me any more favours."

She doesn't say anything else to me as I carry the garbage bags to my car.


	12. Chapter 12

I lean back in my chair and rub my eyes. I've been examining the dirt I collected from Tetch's footprints in every way I could. At this point, I've learned everything I could, but I don't know if it will be enough.

The first thing I found was a tiny clump of soil, the lush kind usually only found for sale in a gardening store. Tetch, having an obsession for Alice in Wonderland, has a fixation on having a quaint English garden. This could be useful. If I assume he's hiding somewhere near wither the hospital the Williams siblings are at or the school they were abducted from, I can question the employees of any gardening centres nearby. Someone might remember something. Even better, they may have a security camera. Of course, if he's nowhere near either location, it will be impossible to search every store that might carry soil in Gotham.

The other thing I found in the dirt was residues from industrial runoff. That kind of pollution is everywhere in Gotham, but there are only a few areas where it's thick enough to produce the kind of levels I'm seeing. One of those areas is West Harlow, where the hospital is.

That makes sense. Tetch would be careful about abducting the children far from where he's hiding. Quinn, who dropped the children off at the emergency room, would have no reason to protect Tetch's location. Even if she did, she's never been known for her caution.

"Are you any closer to finding the Mad Hatter, Master Wayne?" Alfred asks as he descends the stairs into the Bat-cave.

"Maybe," I answer, looking up. "I think I've narrowed it down." I stand and start to head towards the Bat-mobile. Alfred moves to block my path.

"You can't neglect yourself like this, sir," he tells me.

"I'm fine, Alfred."

"The Williams children are safe, and you've been pushing yourself far more than usual for weeks. You can't be Batman all the time. Besides," he continues, "you are hosting a soiree tonight. You don't want to disappoint your guests again."

I sigh and pull off my cowl. Even if I have to admit Alfred is right, I'd still rather face the Joker than Gotham's rich and famous.

* * *

><p>I can't help but notice that every time someone at the GCPD comments on the safe return of the Williams children, it's in a self-congratulatory way. I don't mind not getting any recognition, but it's a little grating when a whole building full of people is taking credit for one of my good deeds.<p>

I also can't help noticing the officers talking about searching the area around the hospital for Harley or Jervis, so I decide to do a little digging.

On my computer I look up the hospital the kids ended up at last night, comparing its location on the map of Gotham to Harley's - formerly Jervis's - abode. The two places aren't far apart, but they aren't close either. The search would have to have an impractically large radius to even come close. I sit back in relief. I didn't bother getting a phone number from Harley – she'd probably misinterpret that if I had asked for one – so I have no way of warning her if she was in danger of being discovered.

I lean back in closer to the screen, noticing something on the map. There were a few hospitals close by that Harley could have dropped the kids off at, but not only did she avoid the nearby ones, she actually found two that form a perfect line with her new home, putting one other option right between her hiding spot and where she knew she'd be spotting.

Smart. The hospital was close enough to not endanger the kids, but in a location that didn't cast too much suspicion on her actual location. Now I want to call her to compliment her on her choice.

* * *

><p>"I know it's gruesome, and I would never wish for someone to die," one of the many socialites at Wayne Manor tonight, wearing a long red sheath dress with a neckline plunging almost to her waist, says, using the usual disclaimer, "but I can't help but feel that the people of Gotham are so much safer without Zsasz around."<p>

I stifle my response, gripping the stem of the champagne glass – in actuality filled with ginger ale – in my hand. Instead of saying anything, I take a sip.

Before I can think of what I'm expected to say to a comment like that, someone else in the small cluster of people fills the silence. "I know what you mean," the man standing across from her, wearing an Armani suit worth thousands of dollars, starts. "But maybe everyone is better off this way," he finishes with a practiced compassion.

I wonder if that sentiment extends to Zsasz himself. Or if any of these people have thought about the cost of Zsasz's death. No one seems to be concerned about the fact that Zsasz, Croc and Cobblepot's deaths mean there's someone else, someone possibly more dangerous, out on the streets.

A woman in a short, black dress scoffs derisively. "The Batman should have done it years ago."

I nearly break the fragile glass in my hand. Whoever is doing this has sacrificed their humanity to do so, or at least lost it somewhere along the road, becoming as much of a monster as the people he's hunting. They've done the unjustifiable, most likely pretending it was necessary to save lives, and only hurt themselves in the process.

"The Gotham Herald is publishing a report tomorrow on the front page," another guest, the part-owner of that particular newspaper, advertises. "The crime rate has plummeted in the past few days."

"Master Wayne," Alfred says from behind me, "there's a phone call for you sir."

Thank God.

"You'll have to excuse me for a moment," I say through a false smile. The surrounding guests nod as I disappear before diving back into their conversation.

"You have excellent timing, Alfred," I tell him with a genuine smile as we walk away.

"Don't thank me, sir, it's from Miss Gordon."

Alfred walks away from me, in the direction of the kitchen, as I near my study. I close the door and lock it behind me. I learned my lesson years ago when a drunken couple stumbled in, looking for a private retreat.

I pick up the phone, keying in a password to access the private extension Oracle would use. "Oracle," I greet her, "do you have something for me?"

"I've been sent a message from the Riddler. He says, and I quote, 'finding someone to craft something to fit your skull was easy, but you're looking for someone who's looking for something to stuff in his'. Any idea what that's about?"

"The last time I saw him, he mentioned Tetch being involved in whatever the Joker is planning," I explain.

"So the reference to something 'fitting your skull' is about the Mad Hatter," Oracle says slowly, thinking. "What about stuffing something in?"

"I'll have to think about that one. Did he say anything else that might lead me to Tetch?"

"Yeah, I'm sending you the entire message now." I hear keys tapping in the background. "In a nutshell, besides the riddle, he said he thinks he's found Hatter, but doesn't want to help you stop one of his colleagues." Oracle's voice drips with scorn on the last word. I don't blame her. Besides, it's not as if Gotham's most wanted tend to show any loyalty to each other. Nigma just thinks of this as a race, and he doesn't want me to beat him to the finish line.

"How about that soil analysis I sent you?"

"You're in luck there. It turns out it's actually a pretty expensive brand, so it's not commonly carried." Oracle pauses for a second. "That said, there's still quite a few places it could've been bought."

"Send me the list of stores."

"Already done."

"Alright," I say, "I'll take a look later and investigate further tonight."

"Okay. Good luck Bruce."

The call ends and I steel myself, preparing to head back out of my study and back into the fray.

* * *

><p>As I walk through the underground parking lot to my car, I try to remember where I was in the list of Gotham's most wanted that I was working my way through before I got distracted.<p>

The Joker's still on that list, if I can track him down, but with just over a week left of my time in Gotham, I don't think that will happen. There are also, of course, the dozens of higher-ups who run the various branches of organized crime in Gotham, but their security will be worse than Oswald's, and I doubt I can get the Batman's help again. I've got solid leads on a couple others – Harvey Dent, Maxie Zeus, Floyd Lawton and Thomas Elliot – but I don't feel particularly motivated to find any of them.

I could go to Harley's newly acquired townhouse and see how trusting she seems, or go over the GCPD's file on the Joker and see if I can find him on my own, but that could take weeks.

My cell phone buzzes in my pocket. I dig it out and look at the screen to see that it's displaying a text from an unknown caller.

'Got a housewarming gift 4 u ;)'

I decide to take a guess that it's from Harley and tap out 'You're the one who moved' to test that theory as I get into the car. The phone buzzes again before I even have the key in the ignition.

'Fine its a thanx for helping me move gift'

'What is it?' I type back. More importantly, can it be exchanged for the Joker's hiding place?

'A surprise,' is the very descriptive answer.

I consider the exchange, debating. It was a late night at the GCPD headquarters tonight, and the last couple nights have left me a little sleep deprived. Now I have to make a decision whether I want to spend my night looking for someone on my list or take a night off see what Harley wants.

* * *

><p>After the last guests have finally left Wayne Manor, I head down into the cave system under the foundations. Before I even start to get ready, I key in a few commands at the massive bank of computers along one wall, bringing up any messages from Oracle.<p>

The first is the full transcript of Nigma's message. Like Oracle said before, he says that he thinks he found Tetch's hiding place, but he has yet to confirm it. He goes on to say he'll be checking it out, and adds an insincere apology about not asking for my help to do so.

I tap my fingers impatiently, thinking. I need to track Tetch down soon, not just because I don't want him out on the streets, but also because I need to know why the Joker is working with Tetch.

Based on the second part of Nigma's message though, the Joker may not be working with Tetch anymore. His riddle said 'finding someone to craft something to fit your skull was easy, but you're looking for someone who's looking for something to stuff in his'. From what I've deciphered so far, Nigma is telling me not to look for Tetch. I don't trust Nigma, but his riddles never lie, as long as you can understand them.

I tap my fingers faster. 'Something to stuff in his'… What? I sigh in frustration. I'll try and figure that out later. For now, I have another message from Oracle that could lead me to Tetch.

I open the second message. It contains a map, showing the locations of each of the garden centres selling the type of soil Tetch was using, along with the locations of the hospital and the school for reference. A text section, along with a few attachments, is included. I open that part of the message.

'Bruce,

'I did a little more digging, and I managed to hack into the networks for a few of the places near the hospital. I've attached the data from the security cameras, but I haven't had a chance to review them yet.

'Barbara'

I look over at my armour, considering. I don't have too many solid leads on Tetch right now. I could go and talk to some of the employees of the nurseries Oracle found, but none of them will be open and the employees would now be spread out all over Gotham. The security footage might provide something better to go on.

I sigh again, disappointed. It looks like it's going to be a long night of watching people buy plants.


	13. Chapter 13

As soon as I press the doorbell I hear pounding footsteps on the other side of the door. The door whips open, revealing a breathless Harley.

"Oh good," she says, beaming, "you came!"

"Uh, yeah," I answer, taken aback by the enthusiastic greeting, "I came."

"Come on in." Harley moves aside to let me into the hallway. I glance around, expecting the bizarre décor I saw the night before. The decoration choices are odd, but they're not the same. Instead of framed illustrations from Lewis Carrol works and broken clocks, there's now an off-kilter Mardi Gras feel to the place, with a few fancy masks hung on the wall and garlands hanging from the ceiling. "It's right down here," Harley says, bounding towards the door to the cellar.

I follow, despite being a little hesitant. I'm not sure what kind of surprise gift would be in the basement, but I don't think it could possibly be good. I ready myself just in case, but if Harley tries to ambush me somehow I think I can take her, especially with her left arm still in a cast.

As we head into the basement, I start to hear a muffled voice and quiet rustling. I immediately recognize that combination of sounds as someone struggling to get free. When we reach the landing, I see Harley's surprise sitting in front of me, bound and gagged with a huge, red bow sitting on his head.

"And this is…?" I ask slowly.

"Whoops," Harley smirks, "how rude of me. Dexter, meet Eddy, AKA the Riddler. I found him snoopin' around, tryin' to find a way in."

The muffled voice of Edward Nigma increases in volume and intensity as he desperately tries to reason with me through duct tape. I think back over what I read about Edward when I was researching Gotham's criminal element. Even though his crimes are usually harmless, there have been a few occasions where he's decided to 'test the intellect' of various Gotham citizens by putting them in death traps. Most of them were found to be lacking in whatever Edward defines as intellect, which at least qualifies him as one of my victims. Ultimately though, I decided he didn't pique my interest.

Of course, now that he's sitting right in front of me, I don't feel so picky.

"This isn't so much a thank you gift as it is a request for another favour," I point out to Harley. I might as well work on making sure she knows she owes me one.

"You could say that," she shrugs nonchalantly. "Or you could say that I figured since you were gonna enjoy this more than me that it was win-win. But if you don't wanna getcher hands dirty," Harley motions towards the stairs.

"Fine," I say, backpedalling. "I'll do it."

"Great," Harley says, beaming again. "I'll leave you two alone so you can set up your little sex dungeon."

Edward's redoubles his efforts to communicate without the ability to open his mouth, reaching as close to screaming as he can get with the duct tape in place.

"For the record, I prefer the term 'kill room'," I correct Harley.

I was wrong. Edward could get closer to screaming.

* * *

><p>"More coffee, Master Wayne?"<p>

"Thanks Alfred."

As Alfred pours the coffee I lean back, struggling not to tear my eyes away from the large screen displaying the grainy film. I've only been watching security camera footage – on ten times the speed – for three hours. If I'd been out on the street for three hours, I wouldn't feel this drained. As it is, I'm on my third cup of coffee. My eyes are burning, the black and white picture irritating them in the darkness of the cave.

If I'd been out on the street for three hours, I'd also probably have some new information by now. Instead, I've watched days' worth of people buying flowers. Not very productive.

Not that I'm expecting Tetch to enter the store and buy his supplies himself. He's not stupid. It's far more likely that he'll get someone else to do it in his own way.

Through years of obsession and countless violations of Gotham's citizens, Tetch has developed various mind control devices. His inventions mean he's not constrained to those who would normally work for his type. Luckily, this actually gives me an easy way to spot someone who may be working for Tetch.

Tetch's devices aren't small, and they need to be close to the brain. Combined with Tetch's love of hats, I'm looking for anyone with unique headgear.

"Would you like me to take over, sir?" Alfred asks. "Fresh eyes may have a better chance of finding something."

"I'm fine Alfred."

"As you wish sir," he says as he turns to leave. "If you change your mind, just let me know."

I smile a little. I'm glad to have Alfred's help, but he worries about me more than he needs to.

I focus my attention back to the screen. This store is fairly deserted, and I've been able to skip ahead at a few points, speeding the process along. At this point though, there have been intermittent lines at the register, and I've been forced to watch each second.

Suddenly, I lean forward. It could be nothing. It could just be a customer with an odd taste in hats. But fedoras, completed with long feathers, aren't exactly in fashion.

I pause the tape and look at the location of the store on the map Oracle sent. It's far from the school, as I expected. It's not close to the hospital either, but it's within a twenty minute drive. The only thing that makes me doubt it might be the right area is the fact that there's one other hospital closer to the garden centre, nearly between the two locations.

* * *

><p>Edward wakes up as I cut his cheek open. Unlike most of my victim's, it takes him less than a second to determine what's going on, and he calmly stares up at me, free of the wide-eyed terror and demands to know what's happening that I normally get.<p>

"What happened to Hatter?" he asks. "Why was he killed?"

"You figured that out fast," I note.

"I had some time to myself after Harley tied me up," he admits. "So let me guess. The Joker wants to cover up his tracks before whatever it is he's planning, so he's lent you his errand girl to lead you to his targets. Last night he had you kill Hatter so he couldn't tell anyone what was going on. Am I getting warm?"

"You tell me."

Edward laughs victoriously. "You also killed the Penguin. The Joker must have let something slip to him as he was purchasing his little toys," he continues.

I have to admit, I didn't expect him to be right about Oswald's fate. I'm not going to count it if he's right for all the wrong reasons though.

"And now you're going to try to get me to tell you what I know, and, more importantly, whether I've told anyone what I know. I have to warn you though, whatever you try to get me to talk," he looks at me pointedly, "it won't work. I've trained my mind against such pathetic games. Really, do you think any of this frightens me?"

"Honestly, I don't really care."

Edward's eyes dart to me in shock before he regains his composure and manages a nervous laugh. "Oh you're good," he says. "I'll admit it. You almost have me going for it."

"Hey, Dexter?" Harley's voice calls from upstairs.

"Yeah?" I answer, moving to the foot of the stairs. "Did you want to come down and watch again?"

"Nah, I'm cool," she says with all the gravitas of someone turning down an invitation to watch TV. "Actually, I was just goin' to get some food. You like Szechuan?"

"Love it."

"Great! See ya when you're done playin'."

As Harley disappears from the doorway above and I head back towards Edward, I feel a tinge of disappointment. I'm used to working alone, but Harley's enthusiasm last night was entertaining. Upstairs I hear the front door open and shut.

Edward laughs again. "Did you rehearse that little play?" he asks.

"No," I say as I look at the knives sitting on the table in front of me. Finally, I pick up a freshly sharpened hunting knife.

"So," Edward says conversationally, "What exactly is it that the Joker is so afraid the Bat will find?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Then how can you know if you find it?"

"Who said I was looking for it?"

Now Edward looks deeply confused. "But I thought..." he tries, but trails off, his voice losing its confidence. "But you're working with Harley. Why else would you have killer Hatter and Penguin?"

"Because I enjoyed it."

Edward actually starts to tremble now. "Why them though? Someone doesn't just start killing Gotham's most wanted for fun."

"Why not?" I ask, enjoying Edward's discomfort.

"You killed Zsasz, didn't you?" he asks, finally getting it.

"For someone who bases his entire wardrobe around being good at puzzles, I thought you'd figure that out sooner."

"Zsasz, Penguin, Hatter... I've even heard Croc is missing, and supposedly there's a shortage of employable killers lately... You go after criminals," he reasons. "It makes sense. Not many people care."

"Killers, actually. If I'm going to kill someone, it may as well be someone who doesn't deserve to live."

"Tad hypocritical, n'est pas?"

"I never claimed to be perfect," I shrug.

"So what about poor Harley?" Edward asks. "I'm guessing as soon as it's convenient..."

"Actually, I'm hoping she'll lead me to the Joker," I confess, cutting off his train of thought.

Edward laughs for a few seconds, sounding as confident as he did before. "I'd really rather not my death be meaningless," he starts to explain, "And I'd love to die knowing the clown is next. On the other hand, I hate to just give out the answers, so I'll give you the same hint I gave the Bat: 'finding someone to craft something to fit your skull was easy, but you're looking for someone who's looking for something to stuff in his'."

"Alright then," I say, not really knowing how to respond to that. I head towards the other end of the table, still carrying the hunting knife.

"Aren't you going to ask me what it means?" Edward says, sounding desperate to at least prove his supposed intellectual superiority in his last minutes. "Beg me for the answer?"

"No," I answer. "I'll probably think of it while I'm sawing your feet off."

I start cutting into the flesh of Edward's ankle, quickly exposing the bones of the joint. As his screams fill the room, I wonder about the riddle. 'Someone to craft something to fit your skull' is easy enough, considering I'm standing in the man's house. 'Something to stuff in his' is a bit more enigmatic.

I turn the words over in my mind a few times, deciding that the reference to 'his' has to be to the skull of whoever the riddle is referring to. So that means I'm looking for someone who needs to stuff something in his skull?

The bones of his left ankle left vulnerable, I move on to Edward's right side.

Maybe Edward is saying I'm looking for someone who's not too bright. Of course, from his perspective, that could mean anyone. Considering the fact that most criminals in this city love attention, I'm not sure I disagree.

I put down the hunting knife, switching to a bone saw.

The riddle can't just be pointing to someone stupid. That's too inexact. But who would fit a more literal definition of brainless?

I stop sawing for a second. Could it really be that easy?

Edward's screams fade to moans. "I'll give you the answer," he gasps, straining to speak, "If you kill me quickly."

I consider this. I'm not used to being asked to finish things quickly. Most people would prefer to be in agony than admit there's no escape.

"Alright," I say, picking up the hunting knife again, "What's the answer?" No shame in checking your work.

"It's," Edward starts, his panting cutting him off. "It's Scarecrow," he manages on the second try. "You're looking for Scarecrow."

I'd have been a little worried if I couldn't handle one of Edward's riddles. "Why? Does he know where the Joker is?" I ask.

"He's the most likely person to know," he answers, regaining some composure, "Out of anyone who's still alive anyways. Except Harley, I suppose."

"Why is the Joker working with the Scarecrow?"

"I haven't figured that out yet," Edward admits. "I guess I won't," he says, his voice coloured by regret.

Now this is just getting depressing. In one swift motion, I plunge the knife down into his heart.

* * *

><p>"Master Wayne?" Alfred says from my right, making me start.<p>

I pause the tape. "Yes, Alfred?"

"It's been five hours, sir," he points out. I glance at my watch. He's right. I've spent half the night watching the security footage and I've only seen one promising lead.

"Thank you, Alfred," I say with a touch of annoyance.

"Allow me to take over sir," Alfred says firmly. "You'll need the rest if you're going to investigate further tomorrow night."

I sigh in frustration. I hate to admit it, but he's right. "Fine," I say as I get up, "Just remember-"

"I'll be sure to get a screenshot of anything promising for you to review," Alfred cuts me off.

I strain to think of a last word to add, but come up empty, and simply stalk away.


	14. Chapter 14

"So," Harley says, struggling to use her chopsticks and succeeding far less gracefully than I am, "I'm guessin' you're gone as soon as you're done eatin'?"

I slurp a noodle into my mouth and swallow. "Unless you want a body decomposing in your basement."

Harley smirks mischievously. "Aww, Eddy'll keep for a few hours."

"You don't seem too bothered by Edward's death," I note, testing the waters. "You don't have too much love for your fellow super-criminals?"

"Nah," Harley shakes her head vigorously enough to make her pigtails swing back and forth, "Most of the papers make it look like Gotham's got some united legion of bad guys or somethin', but we really don't run intah each othah much."

"So you wouldn't mind telling me where someone is?" I ask. The moment of truth. Well, not quite. I'm not planning on asking about the Joker just yet.

"That depends," Harley says, giving up on being able to lift the noodles on her chopsticks high enough and instead lowering her head below the food and dropping it into her mouth. "On whethah I actually know where this mystery person is," she finishes through her food.

Harley has a talent for stating the obvious. "Jonathon Crane," I tell her.

"Oh," she swallows before smiling, "In that case, I know exactly where he is! Hold on a sec."

Harley gets up and leaves the room. As I continue eating, I can hear her steps pounding against the stairs as she runs to the second floor. Less than a minute later, she comes bouncing back down.

"Here ya go!" she proclaims, proudly holding out a small piece of white paper.

I take it and examine it. It's a quickly drawn map with a small grid signifying a few blocks with a couple street names written along some of the lines. A huge arrow points to a spot nestled between two roads, next to a stick figure wearing a sunhat, which I assume is meant to be a scarecrow. "An address would have been enough," I say.

Harley shakes her head. "It's pretty well hidden, and not numbahed. Ya gotta know exactly what ta look for. Trust me. You'll thank me latah."

"I'll take your word for it," I concede as I stand, leaving the chopsticks in the empty take-out container.

"You're leavin' already?" Harley says, looking hurt.

"You may not mind a corpse in your basement, but I'd prefer not to leave evidence lying around."

"You sure you can't stay for a little longah?" she says, standing and stepping in front of me, blocking me from leaving.

I open my mouth to protest, but Harley stands on her toes, wrapping her right arm around my shoulders and pulling herself up, meeting my mouth in a deep kiss. I put my arms around her waist, pulling her closer to me. I close my eyes, trying to let her draw me in.

I can't do it. Edward's dismembered body is too distracting. I let Harley go, leaning away from her. Her blue eyes open and fill with confusion.

"What's the mattah?" she asks. "You got a girlfriend?"

"No, I have…" I pause, trying to think of the right word for an adoptive sister who confessed her love for me, despite the fact that she doesn't like me too much anymore. "A complicated situation," I finish.

"No dice then?"

"Tomorrow night," I tell her, "After I'm done with Jonathon, I'll come here."

Harley's confusion melts away, and she starts giggling.

"What?" I ask.

"Do you always call the people you're planning on killing by their first names?" she asks through hysterical laughter.

I shrug. "I think I get to know them pretty intimately."

"You kinda remind me of Mistah J."

My good mood evaporates. "I really have to get going," I say, breaking away from her and heading out of the kitchen.

"Oh, ok," Harley answers sadly, "I'll see ya tomorrow night."

* * *

><p>I roll over, tangling myself in my sheets, still unable to sleep. My mind keeps drifting back to the security footage several stories below me. For what feels like the hundredth time, I consider going back downstairs on relieving Alfred, but every time I tell myself I really am going to get up I go through exactly what Alfred will say, and know he will be right.<p>

Finally, I manage to stop thinking about the tapes. Unfortunately I instead fixate on Nigma's riddle, and wonder what he could mean when he said I was looking for someone 'looking to stuff something in his'.

Nigma never lies in his riddles, and he never crafts his puzzles to be unsolvable. That's part of the game. So what's the key to this one?

The reference to stuffing something? I try to think of alternate meanings to the word 'stuff', but don't see anything that appears relevant.

The odd grammar? I play around with the word order in my head, trying to make some sense of it, but get nowhere.

I sigh. Time for the brute force technique. I make a mental list of everyone who could possibly be working with the Joker and who isn't currently safely ensconced at Arkham.

Hush – unlikely. I can't imagine the Joker wanting to work with Hush, or vice versa.

Deadshot – equally unlikely. the Joker might hire him, but not as a replacement for whatever he wanted Tetch to do.

Maxie Zeus – possible. The same for Mr. Freeze. I can see the Joker liking the damage they can cause. But I can't connect either of them back to the riddle.

The Scarecrow?

Something clicks in my brain. If the Joker was trying to work with Tetch he was looking for a way to control people. Jonathon Crane, the Scarecrow, is of the opinion that fear is the best method of gaining power over people, and the Joker would probably agree. But what about the riddle?

I think back over the exact words Nigma used – 'finding someone to craft something to fit your skull was easy, but you're looking for someone who's looking for something to stuff in his' – and finally realize that the last half ties back to the first. The sentence which seems unfinished simply means Nigma was telling me to look for someone with nothing in his skull. Someone brainless.

I vow to punch Nigma in the face whenever I next see him for wasting my time with something as inane as a Wizard of Oz reference.

* * *

><p>I was hoping Gotham would be quiet today. A slow day for the GCPD means I can duck out a little early and start looking for Jonathon. Until late in the afternoon, I thought I would get my wish. Then I was sent out to a warehouse near the docks, the same warehouse in which the Joker was previously hiding his arsenal he bought from Oswald.<p>

As I approach the entrance to the warehouse, I see cops milling around, waiting for lab techs like me to show up. The warehouse has already been cleared, and no suspects or witnesses have been found yet. These officers have nothing to do here except make sure no one interferes with my job.

The door to the warehouse swings open as a young officer exits and I can smell the blood even from ten feet away. I sigh heavily, bracing myself for the bloodbath I know I'm about to see.

There was no way I could prepare. Bodies, around a dozen of them, are littered around the massive, open floor of the building, blood spattered randomly around all of them. I'm not even sure where to start, so I just head for the nearest corpse.

I extract my camera from my shoulder bag and start taking photos, trying to piece together what happened as I do. The blood leads back, further into the warehouse. A few handprints, as well as footprints, are imprinted into the long smear. The victim was running as he was hit; that's why he's the closest to the door. I turn over his hand and take a picture of his blood-stained palm. The handprints are his, from his attempt to drag himself towards the door. The footprints are his attacker's.

I move to the next body, or rather grouping of bodies; three are clustered within ten feet square. Blood is sprayed outwards onto the ground around the three men, with none in between them. They were attacked by one person, standing in the centre. They most likely surrounded their killer in an attempt to take him down by sheer numbers. The slashes of red around them are random, completely without any semblance of a pattern. The killer wasn't just violent, he was vicious.

I head over to the fifth body, another male. Despite the fact that I see no evidence for more than on killer, the blood is all over the place, not just coming from one direction. This one was attacked from all sides.

I see a slip of white paper peeking out from the clenched hand of the dead man. I kneel, taking a picture before I gently open his fingers. I grit my teeth as I realize it's a blood spattered Joker card.

* * *

><p>I look over at the red, glowing numbers on the alarm clock to the right of my bed. For a moment I'm surprised and confused by the fact that it says 4:30, as I distinctly remember going over the security tapes well past 5, until I realize that it's late in the afternoon.<p>

I roll out of bed, trying to remember my complex social schedule and desperately hoping there's nothing tonight, as I throw on a robe and head out of the bedroom. I walk down one of the many opulent, vaulted corridors of Wayne Manor towards the kitchen, and food.

When I open the door to the kitchen, I hear sizzling, as well as the sound of a spatula scraping a pan. Alfred, busy cooking something on the stove, looks over at me as he hears my approach.

"Ah, Master Wayne," he greets me with a slight smile, "You're up early."

"I try, Alfred," I respond with a quick grin. "So," I continue as I sit down and pull the paper across the table to myself, "What do I have on the docket tonight."

"Nothing," Alfred answers, looking back at the food. "You're free to roam the streets of Gotham, looking for whatever a young man your age might look for."

"Thanks for that suggestion, Alfred."

"I thought you'd find it helpful, sir."

"Speaking of suggestions-"

"There were three other possible leads in the footage I reviewed," Alfred cuts me off. "The printed screenshots are in the file sitting downstairs, next to the computer."

"Alright, I'll go over them and have Oracle-"

"Miss Gordon has already been looking into the areas nearby to the stores of interest. She says she already has found a few properties which she thinks are owned by dummy corporations."

"The Broker."

"Precisely," Alfred nods, ladling food onto a plate. "She's already sent you an email with what she believes are the most likely addresses."

I nod, mulling this over. It looks like I'll have another full night.


	15. Chapter 15

I sit outside the address indicated by Harley's map in the darkened car – 143 42nd street. I have to admit, she's right about Jonathon's hideout being difficult to spot. Not difficult enough to necessitate a map though; an address and decent description would have worked.

I study the diagram for a few seconds, wondering what the arrow pointing down and the square surrounding the two large tenement buildings I'm looking at could mean. Finally I realize that Harley meant there's some kind of space below the buildings, connected somehow, despite the alley separating the buildings themselves.

I step out of the car and move into the alleyway, where another arrow points to what I'm assuming is the entrance, avoiding the illuminated spots under the street lights as I go. Once in the alleyway, I wish Harley had been more detailed in her scribble, or at least given me a hint on how to get in. There are no doors in the two brick walls on either side of me, just a few windows by my feet, looking down into the blackness of the basement. Other than the windows, there is a large, empty dumpster, and the piles of litter spread liberally throughout Gotham.

I check the drawing again. There's definitely an arrow pointing to a spot in the wall, but the drawing isn't exactly to scale, so I can't be sure which part. Maybe there's a secret entrance? Gotham's criminals do play by a different, completely bizarre set of rules. Secret passageways seem right up their alley, pun unintended.

I stalk up and down both walls lining the alley, but they appear to entirely be normal brickwork. That leaves the area behind the dumpster. I shove the rusted metal as hard as I can, but it refuses to budge.

I walk over to the window and kneel, picking up a rock. The criminals in Gotham may play by different rules, but I don't feel like humouring them. I easily smash the glass and wait, listening for any response. The alley stays silent, and no noise issues from below me. After thirty seconds, I slide feet first into the window, landing lightly on cement.

The only light is the dim, ambient light coming through the window from the street. It's not enough to make out the whole basement, just the area immediately surrounding me. The walls behind and to the right of me disappear into the darkness. On the floor I can make out a stain that looks like dried blood. The space is vast, but not in use and completely empty.

I creep along the wall behind me slowly, to allow my eyes time to adjust to the darkness, keeping my right hand to the wall. A few feet into the blackness, my hand loses contact, and I turn my head to see a very faint glow down what appears to be a tunnel, leading underneath the street to the basement of the building next door.

The tunnel is narrow, and its ceiling is lower than the one in the rest of the basement, but not low enough to require me to duck. As I peer inside, I hear voices from the other end. They're too low to make out the words, but one is confident and calm, while the other sounds like they're sobbing. I head inside.

I carefully look around the corner once I'm at the other end to see two men. The one facing me, although he's too distracted to notice my presence, is aging, bald, and duct taped into a chair.

"Please don't do this!" he pleads, tears running down his face.

"Don't worry, you'll only feel the needle for a second," the second man, his back to me, tells the first. He's wearing a burlap mask and wielding a syringe. Jonathon Crane. "On the other hand, once that's over, you'll learn the true meaning of fear, so I guess a slight sting is the least of your worries," he adds with a shrug.

It takes me less than a second to have my own syringe uncapped, and less than two to silently cross the distance separating Jonathon and I, but it's long enough for him to lean down and insert his needle into his prisoner's rapidly pulsing carotid artery.

Even as Jonathan's eyes widen as he realises I'm there, he pushes the plunger down, injecting his victim with who-knows-what at the same time as his own veins are filled with M-99. He collapses, taking his syringe with him.

I step back as he falls, hoping I don't need to take his prisoner to an emergency room. As soon as I'm more than two feet away, the bound man suddenly lunges forward, or tries to, snarling.

Despite the reams of duct tape holding him down, as well as the fact that he wouldn't have a prayer in a fair fight against me, judging by his pudgy midsection, he keeps trying to struggle forward, violently trying to attack me as I watch him. His chair scrapes the ground as he manages to maneouvre it in my general direction. Abruptly he screams in pain and convulses, ultimately falling as far forward as he can.

"What the fuck?" I mutter softly. From what I've heard of Jonathan's drugs, he should have been shivering and sobbing in fear, not trying to pick a fight. I look down at where Jonathan is laying at my feet. I have some questions for him once he wakes up.

* * *

><p>After settling on a section of several city blocks for their proximity both to the garden centre and the hospital, I mentally eliminate a few of the properties Oracle thought had suspicious ownership. Some of them are apartments, not conducive to the gardening I think Tetch was doing, and another is a storage facility, not something Tetch would be attracted to. That leaves only one address within my search area.<p>

As I drive down the street leading to the spot, I realize it's not one property, but a row of townhouses. As I move down the row, I quickly remove each from my list of potential hideouts, since they're all deteriorating, unlit, and obviously uninhabited. Finally, in the middle of the block, I see one townhouse that stands out from the list.

The windows here are actually made of glass, although they had to be barred to maintain that feature, and they allow some light to escape. Someone must be inside. But the most promising thing, the factor that makes me know that this is the place, is the small, well-maintained garden out front.

I hide the Bat-mobile in a dark, narrow alley, and get out, checking the area with both infrared and night-vision goggles to make sure no one is nearby to see me. I move towards the house to get a better idea of what I'm dealing with, and start to feel some doubt.

While the house looks like exactly where Tetch would be staying, the garden doesn't look like it's been tended to for days. Small weeds are beginning to grow, threatening to choke out the delicate flowers. I shake my head. This house is still the best candidate.

I walk to the door, taking a lock pick gun out of a pocket in my utility belt, and press the gun to the door, squeezing the trigger until the door pops forward. I open it just enough to enter, and slip inside.

My doubts intensify. This is nothing like what I would expect from Tetch. Rather than his usual theme of Lewis Carrol inspired madness, there are masks and streamers. It's just as insane as Tetch, but it has a completely different flavour. If anything, it reminds me of Quinn.

I flash back to the security tape at the hospital of Quinn bringing the Williams children to the emergency room. I couldn't figure out how she would be involved. I'm still not sure, but I have a sinking feeling that Tetch has disappeared like Killer Croc and the Penguin.

There's a clatter of dishes ahead of me, and I move forward slowly to the lit doorway down the hall. I peer into the opening to see Quinn standing in a kitchen, her back to me, in front of a cupboard full of different types of tea. She's standing a few steps back from the cupboard, her pigtails swaying back and forth as she reads the names of each tea, trying to decide.

I take the opportunity to make my move, and run forward, grabbing Quinn's shoulder and spinning her around to face me. I hold her right arm around the wrist, and she struggles but can't move.

"What are you doing here?" I demand. "Where's Tetch?"

"Ummm, outta town?" she guesses. "I'm housesittin'."

I growl and throw her across the room. She lands bent over the table, and scrambles for a second to get up and turn to face me.

I don't approach her. I know she can't beat me in a fight, especially with her arm broken. "You know who killed Croc, don't you?" I ask her, but it's more of a statement of fact. "And they killed Tetch," I add.

Quinn's eyes narrow. She doesn't want to answer, but we both know I'm right.

"Where is he, Quinn?" I step forward, closing the distance between us. She shifts nervously, looking for an exit, before she abruptly grows still and locks eyes with me. I steel myself. She's obviously decided on a course of action. "Tell me where he is."

"Two steps ahead of you," she responds, and her good arm swings up towards my neck and I feel a sharper pain than I expect from a move like that. I easily bat her arm away, and hear something clatter to the floor a few feet away. Quinn squeaks in surprise at my counter, and manages to bounce a few feet away from me.

My vision starts to blur, and I stumble forward, just barely stopping myself from hitting the floor. From my low position, kneeling on the ground, I see Quinn bolting out the back door of the kitchen into the night. Another second and things go completely black.

* * *

><p>Stripped of the burlap scarecrow mask he usually wears, Jonathan is so normal and forgettable looking that you wouldn't be able to pick him out on a crowded street. I'm reminded of the old cliche about serial killers looking like everyone else. I've always considered it convenient that I have no obvious features that label me a sociopath. Clearly Jonathan, along with the rest of Gotham's most wanted, considers it an annoyance.<p>

Behind me, I hear Jonathan stir as I place a microscope slide, already stained with a circle of his blood, next to a collection of knives and ponder what I'll use first.

"What in the hell is this?" Jonathan asks, his voice free of even a hint of apprehension.

"Justice," I shrug, "Karma," I continue, offering alternatives. "Your lifestyle catching up with you," I finish, out of suggestions.

Jonathan lets out a snort of derision. "I'm assuming you're expecting me to beg for my life then? Confess to my sins and plead forgiveness for my evil ways?"

"No, but you can if you want," I respond. "If you start with the Joker's location, or what you did to the dead guy bleeding from his mouth in the other room, I might even end this relatively quickly."

"Do you really think you scare me?" Jonathan asks, smiling in amusement. He's more entertained than anything else.

His file is correct then. He really has conquered his sense of fear. On top of that, he's probably going to be unfazed by pain. I try to remember exactly what I read about him, and recall that his file mentioned he was afraid of exactly one thing: the Batman.

That doesn't exactly help me right now.

Or maybe I can make that fact useful. The news and more sensationalist papers have been reporting a widespread theory that some of my acts were performed by a frustrated Batman.

On the other hand, Jonathan has seen and spoken to the Batman on multiple occasions. There's almost no chance it will work. I don't know if it's even worth a try.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Jonathan asks, interrupting my thoughts and giving me the perfect segueway.

"I'm the one who killed Zsasz," I tell him, "And Killer Croc, the Penguin, the Mad Hatter, and the Riddler, along with so many other killers before them. I've given you so many chances in the past to change, to atone, and you've refused, so now you're going to disappear from my streets like every other threat to the people of Gotham."

I have no idea if that's anything like what the Batman would ever say, but he seems pretty melodramatic. Still, this all hinges on whether or not Jonathan himself has gotten up close and personal with the Dark Knight.

"So it's true what they say," Jonathan says, trying and failing to keep the tremor out of his voice, "We really have pushed you too far."

"You have one last chance, Scarecrow," I keep going, encouraged by Jonathan's reaction. "Tell me where the Joker is."

"I don't know," he sobs. "I really don't, please believe me."

What was it his file said? Something about how he'd somehow transferred all his fear to the Batman? I have to admit, being the object of all of one person's fears, even if I'm just pretending, is empowering.

"I don't believe you," I tell him, trying not to smirk as I enjoy myself. I'm pretty sure the Batman wouldn't enjoy this, at least not visibly.

"You have to believe me!" Jonathan begs. "I'll tell you everything I know about what he's doing though!"

I don't really care what the Joker is planning, to be honest, but I am a little curious. "Go on," I urge Jonathon.

"He wanted me to make a fear toxin that would provoke a fight reaction rather than a flight response. He wanted to give it to all the politicians in Gotham at the next city budget meeting, give them weapons, and set them loose."

I immediately picture a swarm of well dressed elected officials running through the streets gunning down their voters, and I feel my dark passenger laugh harder than I can ever remember. Combining that with Harley's comment last night about how I remind her of the Joker is enough to make me a little uncomfortable. Gotham is a terrible influence on me.

I pick up a carving knife and bring it close to Jonathon's face. "And you're sure you don't know where the Joker is?" I press him.

He tries to shake his head against the tape holding it in place, scared beyond words.

"This is your last chance, Jonathon," I let him know.

"I don't know where he is!" he insists. "I haven't even seen him since he broke out of Arkham."

"How was he contacting you?"

"There's a phone," Jonathon tells me. "A pre-paid cell phone."

I groan inwardly. Someone with the right skills, or the law on their side, might be able to use that to find the Joker. The Batman has both of those things. I, of course, do not.

"Too bad," I say.

"I told you everything I know!" Jonathon protests.

"To be fair, I would have killed you anyways," I reassure him.

"Wait, that doesn't sound right," Jonathon says, confused. "This isn't right."

I think he's beginning to catch on.

"You're not the Batman," he hisses furiously, finally getting it.

"Nope. Sorry to disappoint."

"You're just some garden-variety serial killer," he accuses me.

Now that's just unfair. Not that I care. He's the one who's about to die. "Feel free to keep telling yourself that," I say as I start to slice into his elbow, "If it'll make you feel better."

* * *

><p>I put a hand to my head, clenching my teeth from the pain of my pounding headache, as I push myself away from the floor, finally managing a sitting position. I look around the tiny kitchen. Harley's long gone. The clock on the wall, which resembles a pocket watch and must be the only part of Tetch's decor that Harley kept, says I've been unconscious for just over an hour.<p>

I growl and manage to stand, looking for the object which skittered away after I hit Harley's hand away from my neck. I quickly locate it under the table and pick it up to examine it.

It's a syringe, still half full of clear liquid. I'm almost completely sure, even without testing, that it's etorphine. I put it into a pouch on my utility belt to double check later.

Harley's gone, but she must have left some clue to where she'd go next. Knowing Harley, where she goes next will be either into the arms of the Joker, or whoever he new friend is. Either way, I need to locate her.

I start at the bottom. The basement is abnormally spotless, and provides no hints.

The first floor, where I entered, is similarly useless, only containing examples of Harley's odd decorating choices.

The second floor is where it starts getting interesting. In the sole bedroom, decorated in overbearing reds and blacks, I find a coat rack, which holds, along with a few flamboyant outfits, a green bowler hat and a cane topped with a question mark. Nigma was here. And he wouldn't leave without his property.

I think about his message. He said locating someone to craft something to fit your skull was easy. I knew he'd found Tetch, but it looks like he tried to investigate and ran into Harley or, more likely, judging by his complete disappearance, whoever she's been working with. I shake my head. Nigma's gone too far before, but no one deserves to be reduced to a few small trophies.

I search the rest of the room, but find nothing beyond Harley's personal possessions. Finally, on a small side table out in the hallway, I find the most promising thing so far: a small pad of paper with lines scored into it from whatever was written on the sheet that used to lie on top.

I take the pen lying next to the pad and carefully, softly run it back and forth over the paper, keeping it from falling into the lines. Within seconds I have the image of a hastily drawn map. I leave the house with it, hoping it will allow me to catch up to Harley.


	16. Chapter 16

I'm tying a knot on the fourth and final garbage bag as my cell phone vibrates. I take it out of my pocket to see who's trying to contact me. The screen displays a phone number, rather than a contact name, that I now recognize as Harley's disposable cell phone – a number I memorized rather than risk anyone at the GCPD glance over at my phone to notice I'm in contact with a known murderer.

I flip the phone open and check the message.

'Get out ASAP. B-Man en route.'

B-Man. That can only mean the Batman. Profound annoyance runs through me for a moment. I had hoped to get a chance to search for the cell phone Jonathon told me he got from the Joker. Even if I couldn't find any leads from it, it would block anyone else, like a certain vigilante with a penchant for dressing up as a flying nocturnal mammal, from catching up.

I also wanted to look for the actual entrance. I just know it's going to bug me not knowing. I shake my head and ignore it. I don't have a choice except to get out as quickly as I can.

I grab two of the garbage bags and run them over to the broken window before running back to get the others. Standing under the window, I realize that although I can climb out easily enough, I can't carry the bags as I do, and the window is too high up to shove the bags through from the ground.

I hurry back to the second half of the basement, scanning it for anything I can climb on. The basement, despite the fact that it's full of desks and filing cabinets, doesn't appear to have anything easily movable at first. Then my eyes fall on the body of Jonathon's victim.

I really don't want to touch him. If Jonathon's lair is found, I don't want to have left any trace of my presence here, and besides, I'm much too professional to tamper with the evidence at someone else's crime scene unless I have to. I look around again, double checking the room for anything else I can move under the window, but it looks like I have no other choice.

I grab a box cutter, sitting on one of the desks, and hold onto the back of the chair as I tilt it forward, letting loose another gush of blood from the dead man's mouth. I make two slits through the duct tape at the sides, and the corpse falls forward, freeing the chair.

In seconds I have the chair under the window, and I'm standing on it, pushing the garbage bags through the window one at a time, careful to prevent the jagged shards of glass around the edge from piercing the black plastic. Once all the bags are through, I follow, pulling myself through and into the alleyway. I pick up two of the bags and jog over to my car.

As I'm closing the trunk on the bags, I hear a low, loud rumble, and look up at the sky, wondering if it's thunder, but for once I can make out a few of the brightest stars and the crescent of the moon. It's actually clear tonight.

The sound doesn't taper off, like thunder would, but grows louder. I duck behind my car, finally understanding that the sound is something approaching me.

Suddenly, I hear a long, high-pitched squeal down the street, and I peer over the car to see what it is. A black, heavily armoured, and extremely recognizable vehicle comes sailing down the road towards me, turning at the very last second at a perfect ninety-degree angle to shoot down the alley, coming to a complete stop from its breakneck speed in a fraction of a second.

This is the car that the newspapers refer to as the Batmobile. I silently thank Harley for her warning, and hope she's alright so I can thank her in person. She has to be. It's not like the Batman would take her into custody but let her keep her cell phone.

On the other hand, this is a man who willingly dresses as a bat.

I see the massive black form of the Batman step out of the car, consulting a slip of white paper and I wonder if Harley gave him the same instructions she gave to me. Maybe that's why he let her go. He paces back and forth a few times, nearly tripping over my garbage bags.

* * *

><p>I pull into the alley, trying to read Quinn's note. This is 143 42nd street, definitely the right address, but the paper shows an entrance in the alley itself. I walk along the whole alley. There are no visible doors in the two brick walls.<p>

I glance at the map again, wondering if the arrow is a mistake. There are a few lightly drawn lines connecting the walls perpendicular to the alley which don't seem to go with the rest of the diagram. They're probably from whatever was drawn on the paper on top of the one used to make the original map. I doubt the arrow is also wrong though; its lines are too deep.

I stalk the alley, looking for any distinctive, permanent features. There are a few scattered piles of litter, but the only thing exceptional about that is that someone was at least courteous enough to gather their trash into a bag rather than leave it free to blow around.

I go cold and, for a moment, forget to breathe, picturing the Batman leaning down to examine the bags. I try to remind myself that there's nothing distinguishing them from normal garbage bags, and the alley is filled with piles of trash anyways, but none of that seems to matter when the Batman is practically stepping on Jonathon's corpse. Or at least some of it.

The other thing is the dumpster. Usually those wouldn't be permanent enough to make a good secret entrance, but maybe this one has been modified and somehow attached to the wall.

I shove it, testing the theory. Despite my strength, it refuses to budge. I walk in a half circle around it, quickly examining it. There are no obviously visible buttons or levers. There can't be many places to hide something like that on the dumpster, so I kneel down and run my hand along the bottom. I hear a click as my hand moves, effortlessly hitting a switch, and I hear the hum of a machine.

* * *

><p>After what feels like hours, the Batman makes his way purposefully to the dumpster, kneels, and feels along the bottom edge. I hear the sound of something mechanical, gears grinding against each other, and then I watch the Batman climb into the dumpster and descend.<p>

So that's where the entrance was. Not that that particular mystery is very pressing right now.

I stand and look at the dumpster. The back of it has split in two, and both halves are moving apart, revealing a dark staircase leading downwards. I vault into the dumpster and head into the darkness.

Past the stairs is a simple door. It's locked, but its lock is not the main line of defense, and it easily breaks with a solid kick.

I stare at the alley for another few seconds, torn, before I decide my next move. I dash across the street, picking up the garbage bags as I pivot, and run back to the car. Within seconds I have the trunk open and the bags inside. I close the trunk as lightly as I can, creep to the driver side door, and start the car, pulling away slowly, not gaining any speed until I've turned the corner.

* * *

><p>Inside, the basement is dim, but well-lit enough to see. There are two desks, across from each other, shoved against two of the walls, and covered in papers. I flip through a few. They're all handwritten notes. I skim them, but recognize enough to realize these are formulas for psychopharmacological drugs.<p>

Was Crane here? Nigma said he was looking for him. It's possible he told Quinn where Crane was, but I'm not sure why she'd care. The map doesn't make sense either. Unless she was trying to tell someone how to find Crane. Maybe her new friend wanted to kill him?

I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. All the lights are on, making the hideout a little more obvious if anyone were to peer in one of the partially blacked out windows, but Crane hasn't made an appearance, either to flee or defend his property.

I move on, now urgently searching for Crane. I don't see anything else in the room, except for a few filing cabinets, probably filled with notes like the ones on the desks.

There's also a large pool of blood on the floor. I kneel to examine it. It's still sticky. Not wet, but not dry either. It's recent. It's also smeared, leading towards a dark passageway that appears to lead under the alley.

* * *

><p>When I've travelled a few blocks without hearing the Batmobile firing up again, I dial Harley's number from memory. She picks up almost immediately.<p>

"Dexter!" she says, the sound of her voice perfectly mixed between apprehension and optimism, "Did you run intah the Bat?"

"No, I missed him," I answer, thinking of how close I was to being intercepted by the Batman. "Just barely. Thanks for the warning."

"What else was I gonna do?" Harley asks in a way that tells me she's shrugging as she speaks, "Leave ya tah get caught?"

Harley may be a mass murderer, but other than that she's pretty dependable.

"What happened?" I ask her.

"The Bat busted intah the Hattah's house about an hour ago," she explains. "I managed to get outta there though."

"How did you know he was on his way?" I ask. "Why did he know where I am?"

"I hid outside, 'cause I thought I might be able to get the drop on him if he was still a little foggy. Anyways, I saw him leave with a piece of papah from the house, and I figured he found the pad upstairs." Harley pauses. "I really shouldn't've drawn that map," she adds sheepishly.

"That's alright," I reassure her. The map let the Batman catch up by a few steps, but apologies don't fix that now. "Do you have anywhere to go?"

"No," Harley says dejectedly.

"Head to my motel room," I tell her, "I'll be there once I'm done with Jonathon."

To my surprise, rather than responding, Harley lets out a happy squeak before the phone goes dead.

* * *

><p>I get up and follow the blood into the tunnel, ducking a little to allow room for the pointed ears of my cowl, as I turn on my night vision goggles. A few feet in, I see the body.<p>

He's an older male, lying face down. I roll him over, checking him for wounds, but see none. The blood appears to come from his mouth. There are also silver strips of duct tape across his rotund chest that don't extend to his back. The results of one of Crane's experiments, I'm assuming.

I scowl and stand, heading further into the tunnel. It opens up into a massive space that extends to the entire basement of the building across the street. Crane has a lot of space to work with. With the night vision goggles, I can make out large circular stains dispersed sporadically on the floor. I can't be sure, but they look like blood.

The only piece of furniture in the room is a chair pushed up against one wall. I move the few steps to the chair and scrutinize it. It's directly under a broken window. I move a step back and feel glass grinding beneath my boot. I look down to see the shattered glass from the broken window scattered on the cement floor. Someone broke in.

I rush forward, climbing the chair and shoving my head and shoulders through, looking for any clues indicating who broke in and where they went. There's nothing of interest in the area immediately surrounding the window, but something seems wrong. Then I understand why.

The garbage bags that used to be here, full and neatly tied like the ones pieces of Nixon Two-Bear were found stuffed into, are gone.

* * *

><p>Hey everyone! Thanks for all the universally awesome reviews, I'm blown away by how much you guys are all enjoying this!<p>

Anyways, one of the reviews was asking about what sources I'm using for my characterizations. To be honest, that's a little complicated, but I'll try to break it down as best as I can.

Dexter's definitely mostly from the show, but there is a little bit of the books in there. I wanted to make him just a little bit more vicious so that he's more morally ambiguous, which I hope makes the contrast with Batman sharper.

For Batman, I kind of want to say that there's a lot from Batman: the Animated Series, since I grew up with that show and that is, but it may be more appropriate to say it's from the games Arkham Asylum and Arkham City, since that's the same characterization, but within a much darker setting. There's also definitely a little bit of Christian Bale Batman too, especially when I'm writing Bruce Wayne. There are also a few random details here and there from the comics, but I mostly found those difficult to use as a source, since the characterization tends to depend heavily on the writer.

I hope that answers your question!


	17. Chapter 17

The first time I found Harley in my motel room, she tackled me to the floor. This time I'm ready. I've managed to close the door behind me and turned around when she slams into me, but I manage to stay standing. Despite the assault, she's grinning ear to ear. I'm beginning to think she attacks people as a sign of affection.

"You're ok!" she says, somewhat unnecessarily.

"Uh, yeah," I respond, "I got your warning just in time."

"That's good," she says as she heads over to the bed and bounces onto it.

"What about you?" I ask, putting down my bag of supplies as I follow her and sit on the edge of the bed. "What happened?"

"When the Bat busted in, I managed to hit him with one of your needles that I, uh, borrowed," she says sheepishly. I think back to how my bottle of M-99 seemed a little low, and start to get concerned about Harley's original plans for the stolen syringe. "I didn't get the whole thing in him though, so I just bolted. What about Scarecrow? You got him before Bats showed up?"

"Yeah," I confirm, "Everything was cleaned up before the Batman showed up."

"Good," Harley replies.

We sit there in silence for a minute, neither of us sure what to say. She doesn't need to say anything; I know what she has in mind. She's hinted at it enough, but the last couple times I was held back by her coat of face-paint or a dismembered corpse in need of disposal. This time I can't think of any reason to say no.

Even with that conclusion, I have no idea what to say. I've never been good at initiating this sort of thing.

Luckily I don't have to. Harley doesn't say anything, but I feel her lips on my neck, and I allow her to pull me down towards her as I turn to face her.

* * *

><p>After making certain that Crane is not here, I find a light switch. Both sides of the basement are illuminated by white fluorescent lights. I head into the second half of the basement, the one that was unused. One of the lights near the back flickers, but otherwise it's now easy to see everything.<p>

The lighting confirms that the floor is covered in large, long dried puddles of blood, although I'll still test traces from each spot to double check. I choose one randomly and kneel next to it, trying to understand what would cause it to form in this shape. It looks as if the blood simply pooled, but I would expect some sort of distinct pattern from the initial wound. I'll have to wait for the GCPD's analysis to be sure of what happened.

Besides the blood, there's nothing in this side of Crane's hideout, so I head back to where I started. I already flipped through a few of his papers on the desk, and arbitrarily picking up and reading other papers reveals more notes on the same subject matter. I pick up what looks like the most recently written notes and fold them together, slipping them into my utility belt. I'll study them later to determine what Crane's plan was.

I search through each of the desk drawers, finding them all empty until opening the last one reveals a cell phone. I take it and put it into the same pouch as the notes I took a minute ago. Oracle can probably trace where the phone has been. It might tell me something about whether Crane was working with the Joker, and where to look for him.

Finally I move on to the large cabinet against one wall. I throw open the doors. The shelves are covered in vials of various shapes, sizes and colours. I pick one up. The label identifies it as a powerful hallucinogenic. Looking through them randomly reveals that this is a pharmacological cornucopia.

Closing the cabinet, I decide that I've learned all I can on my own. I press a button on my wrist which sends a message to the GCPD. I don't even need to say anything. At this point, my word is enough to tell them that this is urgent.

* * *

><p>Harley lies across my chest, wrapped in my arms. She sighs deeply, but she sounds depressed rather than satisfied.<p>

"What's wrong?" I ask her.

"Just thinkin'," she answers. She goes silent for a moment, apparently lost in thought. "I still can't believe it," she eventually continues, "Ya make one little suggestion, then it doesn't even mattah how hard it was breakin' him outta Arkham."

That's what she's thinking about? If I had feelings they'd be hurt right now.

"On toppa that, there's the Bat," she adds. "Where does he get off invadin' my home twice in one week and beatin' up on me when he knows I have relationship issues?"

"To be fair, he wouldn't have known it was your home the second time," I point out.

"It just makes me so mad," Harley keeps going, ignoring my comment, "I wish there was some way I could hurt 'em both."

I don't have a response. I doubt she'd pay any attention right now anyways, so I just stay silent, listening, but she seems lost in thought again.

"I got it!" she says suddenly, bolting upright out of my arms. She turns back to look at me, smiling coquettishly. "Think ya could do me another huge favour, Dex?" she asks, acting shy.

"Depends on the favour," I answer.

"Could ya kill the Bat for me?" she bats her eyes.

I mull over that statement for a moment, confused. "What about getting back at the Joker?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "You don't get Mistah J. I do."

"Meaning…?"

"Meaning that if anyone kills Bats, Mistah J would want it to be him," she explains. "It would drive him nuts to know someone else did it." Harley giggles insanely. "I can get them both back at the same time."

Except that her plan is to get me to do it. And I can't kill the Batman, despite how annoying he's been. Not that I'm about to tell Harley that, especially since her plan gives me an idea.

"I don't think I could take the Batman down," I say as if I'm embarrassed to admit it. To be honest, I don't know if I could beat the Batman – I've never had to fight someone wearing full body armour – but I think I'd hold my own. "Not unless I had the element of surprise. I'd have to know where he was going to be in advance."

"Oh," Harley says in disappointment, falling back against me.

We both go silent for a few minutes.

"Do you think the Batman will catch the Joker?" I ask conversationally, trying to plant the seed.

"He always does, soonah or latah," Harley sighs. "That's it!" she jumps up again. She looks down at me excitedly. "If we go wait where Mistah J's hidin', we're practically guaranteed to get the jump on the Bat!"

There it is. The Batman probably won't catch up to the Joker for a while. Anyone working for the GCPD knows how few leads there are. With my contract with the GCPD up within a week, there's no way Harley and I would run into the Batman while staking out the Joker's lair before I head back to Miami.

Not that Harley needs to know that. All I need to do is get her to show me where to look for the Batman, and I'll be able to leave Gotham finally free of its worst offender.

* * *

><p>After two uniformed officers, Bullock is the first detective to arrive. As the crime scene tape is strung around the alley, he manages to hoist his heavy frame into the dumpster to enter Crane's hideout. He does his best to hide his scowl when he sees me inside.<p>

"So, what've we got?" he asks me.

"One body. Lots of dried blood," I tell him. "Crane was hiding here."

Bullock looks around, unimpressed. "How do you know for sure?"

"All these papers contain notes on hallucinogens and other drugs with psychoactive effects," I answer. "You'll find something similar to Crane's fear toxin when you run a drug screen on the body."

"So where's our old friend the Scarecrow now then? I take it you didn't catch him?"

"I have good reason to believe he's dead."

"Oh, do ya now?" Bullock laughs. "How's that?"

"There are links to Zsasz's murder," I summarize. I don't have time to explain everything to Bullock, especially when he probably won't act on any information I give him.

"Really?" Bullock asks, finally looking shocked. "Not bad," he nods.

It's telling that Bullock decides to believe me when I tell him that someone is eliminating super criminals. He probably thinks of it as having his job done for him. Not that he'd voice that opinion to me.

"Right then," Bullock says, realizing I'm not going to give him any more information right now, "I'll go take a quick look around before all the lab geeks show up and get in the way."

Bullock heads further into the basement, and I hear him let out a low whistle when he sees the blood stains. I head out into the alley.

Another car pulls up alongside the two police cars already present. This one is black, unmarked, and modest looking, even though I know it's expensive. Commissioner Gordon climbs out of the driver seat and heads over to me as soon as he spots me.

"I heard the Scarecrow was using this as a hideout," Gordon states. When I nod, he continues. "How did you find it?"

"Long story," I reply. "Nigma told me Crane might be working with Joker, and I found a map leading here where Quinn was holed up."

Gordon nods. "What about Riddler and Harley Quinn then? Where are they?"

"Quinn was living in the place I tracked Tetch to. I think Nigma's dead."

"Dead? How?" Gordon asks in surprise.

"I think it was Zsasz's killer. Same with Croc, Cobblepot, Tetch, and now Crane." I explain the links between Zsasz's death and the five disappearances to Gordon, starting with the night I saw Quinn luring Croc into the streets only to be taken down with a tranquilizer dart. How I traced the gun that fired that dart to Cobblepot, only to find him missing an hour after I left the Iceberg Lounge. How I found the townhouse Tetch bought from the Broker, only to find Quinn living there and Nigma's possessions stashed upstairs. As Gordon listens, he stops nodding and frowns.

"The connections between each of those seem…" he pauses, thinking, "Tenuous," he finishes. "You don't even know for sure that anyone's been killed, except for Zsasz."

"I saw Croc get hit by a tranquilizer dart. I was hit by the same," I point out, defensive. "Tetch wouldn't have just disappeared from a house he paid that much for and had no reason to think I was closing in on. And Cobblepot vanished without a trace."

"That still doesn't mean they're dead," Gordon counters firmly. "Or that it was the same person each time." He sighs. "Look," he says, a little gentler, "This is a lot of information. How 'bout we both think about it for a while before we jump to any conclusions."

I grit my teeth. I'm sure these crimes are all connected, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to follow them to this point. But I respect Gordon, and I know he respects me. It hurts a little to think he doesn't believe me this time, but I just need to find more evidence linking these events to prove the relationship.

* * *

><p>The phone buzzes on the night stand next to my bed just as I was falling asleep. I pick it up to see on the glowing screen that I've received a text from Abby. I unlock the phone to read it.<p>

'Come to 143 42nd st. Big crime scene. Lots o' blood.'

"Whassat?" Harley asks, half asleep.

"I have to go," I tell her, "Crime scene."

Harley giggles to herself as I get dressed and pick up my bag, filled with supplies.

"Wait," she says, and I stop and turn to her, "We're still goin' to stake out Mistah J's latah, right?"

"I wouldn't miss it," I promise her.

* * *

><p>More people from GCPD are beginning to show up at the crime scene as the first rays of dawn begin to break over Wayne Towers. At this point, with the scene secured and roped off, the only ones left to show up are the lab technicians.<p>

The shifts must have been just about to change over, because the techs now swarming over the crime scene aren't the same ones who were working all night. These ones are yawning, with dark circles under their eyes, and look like they've been woken up to come here.

I stalk through the crime scene, past the techs dusting for fingerprints, taking the body's temperature, and getting samples of every stray hair they can find, looking for the most alert one to interrogate. In the second, empty half of the basement – that is, empty with the exception of the blood stains – I find one with a camera in hand, crouched by one of the dried pools of blood, examining it intently.

I recognize him. He was at Zsasz's crime scene. His report on that scene was methodical and precise. He seems like the best candidate to give me some new information.

"What can you tell me?" I ask him.

If he's startled by my sudden appearance behind him, he doesn't betray it. He looks at me calmly as he straightens. "There's a lot of blood here," he says, "Enough to indicate bleeding out." He motions further away, to the other puddles. "That goes for each of these puddles. They all definitely represent one death, but I'll get samples from each for DNA tests to confirm that."

"Anything else?" I prompt him.

"Not much," he shrugs, a bit nonchalantly for my taste. He could be a bit less flippant about the massacre this room symbolizes, but most techs are the same way. They've simply gotten used to being this close to violence. "The edges of each stain are uniform. The stains formed by spreading out, away from the body. There's no spatter that indicates any impact."

No impact. That means there was no attack to cause the wounds that left these marks on the floor. I saw the man in the other room, blood spilling out of his mouth. That's consistent with these stains.

"What about in the other room?" I ask.

* * *

><p>This is why I hate having to investigate crime scenes I had a hand in creating. I may not have killed the person the Batman is asking about, and even if I did, I would have no problems lying about it, but I have to be cautious. I already know exactly how the patterns the man's blood took formed, but I can't tell the Batman that. I have to tell him what I would know, if I had come to this crime scene with no prior knowledge of what had happened.<p>

"I haven't examined it yet," I admit slowly as I try to recall exactly what position the body was in as I entered the basement and passed the corpse on my way through to this room. I left it face down, but someone else had already rolled it onto its back before I arrived, allowing me to see the blood running down the front of its shirt. "From a brief look, the victim lost some blood in a sitting position." I also saw the smear leading into the tunnel between the two basements – I'd have to be blind to have missed that – from when I dragged it away from the view from the window in case someone curious scraped away enough of the black paint or broke the glass to see what was inside. "There's also evidence of the body being dragged a short distance. After that, more blood loss occurred."

"Did he die before or after he was dragged?" the Batman asks.

Dead. But I wouldn't know that from the blood. "I can't determine that from the blood spatter. Someone else might be able to give you a time of death," I answer, hoping he takes the hint and leaves. He doesn't.

"You said he was sitting," the Batman states. "Can you tell me if he was in that chair?" he says as he points to the chair I used to climb out of the basement, still positioned under the window.

Yes, but I'm not going to. "There's no blood on it," I point out.

My incredibly useless answer apparently does the trick, and the Batman leaves without another word.

Not that I couldn't figure out whether or not the body had been in the chair even if I hadn't seen him sitting in it – it would just be a matter of matching up the duct tape from the chair to the body – but I'd rather play dumb right now. I'm not about to educate the Batman. If he's half as good as the GCPD's local talent claims he should already know how to figure things out for himself anyways.

Turning back to the task at hand, I move to the next blood stain to start documenting it.


	18. Chapter 18

Still feeling a little wounded from Gordon's doubt that Crane's disappearance was related to Zsasz's murder, I head to Oracle's apartment, letting her know I'm on my was as I leave the crime scene.

I enter through the window, as usual. Oracle would prefer that people don't notice my frequent visits, and I agree. No one needs to tie Barbara Gordon to Batman.

As usual, Oracle is sipping a cup of coffee and staring at several computer screens. One has a map of Gotham, with different areas highlighted. The other two just show streams of data that I don't have a hope of following. As she notices me entering, she takes a headset off, setting it down on the desk in front of her.

"Hi Bruce," she greets me, "Rough night? You look like you could use some coffee."

"No thanks," I reply, "I'm almost done for the night anyways."

"Fair enough," she shrugs. "What's up?"

I pull the cell phone from Crane's out of a pouch on my utility belt. "I found this at Crane's," I explain as I hand it to Oracle. "I thought you could do something with it."

She takes the phone, examining it for a moment. "That shouldn't be a problem," she answers. "Give me about a few days and I can tell you where this phone's been, who's been using it and what they've said."

"Think you can do it faster?"

"I can try," Oracle replies. "Who do you think we're racing with?"

"I think Nigma was trying to tell me that Crane knew where the Joker is," I tell her. "This phone might lead me to him."

Oracle frowns. "'Knew'?" she repeats, homing in on one particular word.

"I think Crane is dead." I pause, not sure how Oracle will react, considering her father's opinion. "And I think the same person might be closing in on the Joker. I need to get there first."

For a second, Oracle's expression is one of disbelief and confusion. Then she gives the slightest shake of her head. "Wanna run that by me again?"

I run through the same explanation I gave Gordon about an hour ago, with a few more details. She listens patiently. If she's doubtful, she doesn't show it. "What makes you think the Joker's next?" she finally asks when I've finished describing what I found at Crane's lair.

"It fits the pattern."

Oracle sighs, composing herself, clearly choosing her words carefully. "Bruce," she starts slowly, "You know I respect you, and that I am aware of your talents, but this seems a little… Far-fetched."

"There are connections between each death," I protest.

"Disappearance," she corrects me. "We're talking about people who have every reason to make themselves scarce. You said it yourself that you were closing in on the Mad Hatter. Maybe he felt threatened."

"Tetch had no reason to know I was closing in. Besides," I continue, "How would Quinn know the house was free for her to take over? What about the etorphine?"

"That's only connected to Zsasz," Oracle counters.

"And Croc," I point out. "He may not have ultimately been taken down by it, but I found that syringe in the sewer where Maroni died." At the word 'syringe', a memory, possibly clouded by the effects of the tranquilizer and my own frustration, resurges. I take the still mostly-full syringe from my utility belt and put it on the desk in front of Oracle, next to the cell phone. "And Quinn was carrying this," I say.

Oracle considers this. "It still needs to be tested," she says slowly.

"Of course," I nod.

She thinks for a moment. "You haven't been wrong too many times," she concedes.

I give her a grim smile. "Even if this is one of those times, we'll still find the Joker."

Oracle picks up the phone again, studying it. "Give me forty-eight hours," she says.

* * *

><p>After dropping off the swabs, all bearing samples from each of the blood stains in Jonathon's hideout, for DNA testing, I head to my desk, sinking into my chair to begin the backlog of paperwork I've accumulated after all the time spent at crime scenes in the past few days. I'm not sure whether to hope for another call to give me an excuse to leave it, or if I should desperately hope that doesn't happen, and give me one more report to add to the stack.<p>

I sigh and dive in. It's tedious, but at least it lets me rest a little. After the past couple days, I feel like I haven't stayed in one place for more than an hour, between the crime scenes I've been investigating and the crime scenes I've been creating. On top of that, the monotony allows me some time to think.

Harley's plan for revenge on both the Joker and the Batman requires that she show me where the Joker's been hiding for the past week. She's said she plans on showing me the place tonight so we can start trying to ambush the Batman as soon as possible. Despite the clear problems with this plan, I'm trusting Harley not to double-cross me. Or at least I'm trusting the massive blind spot she has where the Joker is concerned.

Besides, I haven't told her about my standards. She has no idea that I wouldn't kill the Batman. Or that I'd love to kill the Joker. She's just focused on her revenge.

That still leaves me with an obvious problem though. Harley doesn't plan on just telling me where the Joker is and then letting me enact her whole plan. She wants to be there. So staking out the Joker's hideout means taking Harley along for the ride.

I finish the first report, starting a new pile on the other side of my desk, and take the next file off the top of the to-do stack, opening it to review the scene a little first, still considering my problem.

I'll need to either get rid of Harley once we're watching the Joker's place, or convince her not to come. I don't think the latter is going to happen. She's pretty determined to be a part of this.

I could always try to get her to take a break in the middle of the stake out. I can tell her that I'll call her when I've captured the Batman and let her go to… What? Get coffee? Take a nap? She has nothing better to do.

There's also the option of taking along another syringe. As long as she's unconscious, it won't be a problem to go deal with the Joker. That option comes with another obstacle though. Once she wakes up, she'll know what I've done. I know what her reaction to that will be. If I go with that alternative, I'll also be forced to kill Harley.

I momentarily weigh the two outcomes, deciding whether I want to kill the Joker more than I want to let Harley live. Finally I opt to leave that plan on the back burner and see if I can come up with anything else before I make any rash decisions.

Before I can do that though, I get notice by a crowd forming at the other end of the space reserved for the Major Crimes Unit. Some of the officers and lab techs are gathering around a television, which is tuned to GNN. From the few words I can pick up it sounds like they're reporting on the effect of the extra help donated to the GCPD by the rest of the country.

I head over, ready for a distraction from both the reports and my own thoughts. As I draw near, I hear the anchor for GNN exclaiming excitedly that they'll have Bruce Wayne's comments in 'just a few moments'. Any excuse to draw in an audience with a local celebrity, I guess.

After a few more brief words about the actual statistics related to the crime rate, they cut to the fluff. Bruce Wayne is standing outside a restaurant that, from the looks of it, I would never be able to afford a single meal at, surrounded by cameras and microphones.

"Well, I'm no expert," he says with a charming smile, "But I trust our local police department, and I think they're the best people to trust with the safety of the people of Gotham."

Bruce Wayne seems affable and relaxed, but he's only acting. I should know. I've spent my entire life faking normal interactions, and everything about Wayne's demeanor seems manufactured. He has a secret, the kind like mine, that consumes a person's entire life.

The image cuts away to a GNN anchor sitting at a desk. "That was Bruce Wayne, commenting on the current crime rate, an issue that he's followed closely since the murder of his parents…"

As the reporter drones on, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I check it for messages. I find a single email from Commissioner Gordon. Opening it, I see from the list of addresses that it's also been sent to a decently sized subset of the lab techs brought in from out of town.

The email starts by thanking us for our hard work, especially our prompt attention at the crime scene at 143 42nd street early this morning. Since we're all working extra hours because of that, and due to the long hours we've been working the past couple weeks anyways, we've been given an extra day off tomorrow. Gordon continues, telling us to relax and enjoy Gotham.

An extra day off that Harley doesn't need to know about. I already know how I'll be enjoying it.

* * *

><p>I run through the list of clues in my head for what feels like the hundredth time, Gordon and Oracle's doubts making me unsure, as I strip my armour off. My well trained ears, as well as my honed intuition, sense someone approaching. I turn to see Alfred walking towards me.<p>

"Busy night, sir?" he asks with the slightest trace of a smile.

I don't need to update him on what I've been doing. He's been monitoring me all night, watching in case something goes wrong. He'll have not only seen where I've been all night, but he'll have heard every conversation I've had. Even with Gordon and Oracle.

"Tell me the truth, Alfred," I sigh, "Am I being paranoid? Am I even chasing anyone at this point?"

"Of course you are sir, you're chasing the Joker," he replies, still wearing the same hint of a smile.

"Meaning no, then." I sigh again, dejected. Alfred's lack of faith hurts the most.

"Master Wayne," Alfred begins, "I meant what I said. If you're right, finding the Joker is your best hope to stop this person. At the same time, you must stop the Joker. Even if you're wrong, you'll still have caught the Joker." Alfred stops, considering for a moment, before he continues quietly. "No one will have lost any respect for you for making a mistake."

I should be disappointed that Alfred clearly thinks I'm wrong about this one. But, as usual, he's right. The worst thing that can possibly come of pursuing this is bringing the Joker back to Arkham and having to admit I jumped to conclusions earlier. Even then, I only have to admit that to myself. I'll be the only one to hold my mistake against myself.

"Thanks Alfred," I smile. "That was exactly what I needed to hear."

* * *

><p>The rest of the day creeps by slowly, but luckily I'm only interrupted to go to a crime scene once, allowing me to get through nearly all of the reports. I duck out a little early, at five, unable to wait any longer, and drive to my motel.<p>

Before I can get out of the car, or even turn it off, Harley bounces out the door, locking it behind her with the extra key I gave her. I breathe a sigh of relief to see she's dressed relatively inconspicuously, with the exception of her bright blonde pigtails. She's carrying the duffel bag I use to bring the supplies I need.

"Ready to go?" she asks as she slides into the passenger seat.

"As long as I have everything I need," I answer, looking at the bag.

"Yup," she says, zipping it open and pawing through it to double check, "Needle, knives, weird amounts of plastic sheeting. Got it!"

"I guess I'm ready then." I pull out of the parking spot, waiting for Harley's instructions. "Where are we going?" I prompt her when she says nothing.

"To get food."

I stare at her blankly for a second.

Harley crosses her arms in front of her and pouts. "I'm not tellin' ya where Mistah J is unless we go get food."

I shrug. I could use a bite to eat anyways. "You could have just asked."

"Really?" she says.

Once again I'm reminded of who she normally works with, and how abusive that particular partnership is. I didn't realize it was so bad that she didn't think she was allowed to ask for food though. I add that to the list of reasons the Joker deserves to die as I head for the closest source of food.

* * *

><p>"Not going out tonight, sir?" Alfred asks from behind me.<p>

I've spent most of the day sleeping, once again. It's sometimes very difficult to prevent myself from going completely nocturnal, especially when it's so easy to cancel any appointments I have or board meetings I have to attend. This time I managed to get out of bed early in the afternoon, and even squeezed in a late lunch with yet another attractive young socialite, giving the tabloids something to talk about and giving me the appearance of a social life.

Now that the sun has gone down, I've stationed myself in the extensive cave system below Wayne Manor, and rather than donning heavy armour I'm sitting in front of my computer.

I shake my head in response to Alfred's question. "I don't have anything new right now," I say. "Now's as good a time as any to go over the evidence. See if I missed anything."

Not having any leads isn't a good reason in itself not to hit the streets. In a city like Gotham, there's always an injustice that needs to be stopped, people who need my help. Even keeping my presence in the minds of Gotham's citizens can be an end in itself, giving the criminals something to fear and the good people a source of hope. If I could be out every night I would. But tonight I think I'll be more productive here.

* * *

><p>In Miami, when a criminal aggressively conforms to a theme, for example, by living in an abandoned church while using the Book of Revelations as a source of inspiration, it's shocking and sensational, something the papers will talk about for years. When something similar happens in Gotham, say a mass murdering clown hides out in a defunct comedy club, it's business as usual.<p>

"You've got to be kidding me..." I say quietly as I look up at the building across the street, decorated with a massive sign reading 'The Chuckle Club'.

"Where were ya expectin' Mistah J to be?" Harley asks as she dives into the paper bag to grab some french fries.

"How has he not been found yet?" I ask, ignoring Harley's question in favour of continuing my train of thought. "When he breaks out of Arkham, shouldn't it just be standard operating procedure to check every abandoned comedy club in the city?"

"Don't forget the abandoned fairgrounds and circuses," Harley adds.

I look at her questioningly, but she doesn't seem to be joking. Gotham really does defy belief.

We sit for a few minutes in silence, as Harley happily munches on her food. Every so often I glance over at her, wondering what she's thinking.

"Stop that," she finally says.

"Stop what?"

"Judging me." I look at Harley blankly, and she stares back, defiant. "I know you are," she says when I fail to respond. "It's what everyone does."

"I'm not judging you."

"Oh yeah? So you haven't been sitting there this whole time, wantin' to tell me how stupid I am for focusin' on Mistah J like this, even with my arm still in a cast?"

"I wouldn't tell you you're stupid," I answer, not really sure what to say otherwise.

"I know what people think," Harley continues, "I really do. And I get it. But ya know how sometimes you can know something is one way, but still feel like its anothah way? Like on an emotional level?"

"No." I would need feelings for that.

"Oh..." Harley says quietly. "I dunno, maybe it's just my innah shrink talkin'. Thing is, I know Mistah J's no good for me. But sometimes hopin' he'll feel the same way about me as I do about him is enough."

I hate it when people have this kind of emotional confession to me. I'm the last person anyone should expect sympathy from.

Harley stares at me, waiting for a response. After a second, she giggles. "This is where most people would just pity me," she says. "I'm glad you're not. It always makes me feel so pathetic."

Maybe it's a good thing I'm terrible at offering comfort. At least right now.

"That's ok though," Harley continues, "'Cause I am pathetic."

"You're not pathetic," I reassure her. "You're just… overly optimistic."

She giggles again. "That's one way to put it." She goes silent again, staring at the building across the street for a few minutes, completely motionless. Just when I think she's not going to talk again, at least not on the same topic, she says, "I just can't stop obsessin' over him. Even right now, I'm thinkin' about how I wish I could tell him what I got planned, just so I can see how much it pisses him off." Harley sighs deeply and shakes her head. "If I could stop thinkin' I might get him to love me if I just try hardah, things would be so much easiah."

Whether she means that or not, she's going to get her wish.

* * *

><p>I push back from the desk, ready to call it a night as I rub my temples. Hours of going over old evidence has turned up nothing. I'm beginning to think there's nothing to find.<p>

A blinking icon on the computer screen calls me back, and I click it to answer.

"Bruce," Oracle's voice says over the computer, "I tested the syringe you gave me."

"And?"

"It contained etorphine." Oracle pauses for a second. She has something interesting. "It was the exact same concentration as the one you found in the sewer."

"That's what I thought," I respond smoothly.

"I know Bruce," Oracle says apologetically. "It's starting to look like you're right."

I'm glad Oracle is starting to believe me, but I'm not going to rub her previous judgment in her face. "What about the cell phone?" I ask.

"I'm still working on that," she says, "But I'm definitely making it a priority."

"Thanks."

"I'll let you know when I have more information," Oracle tells me, ending the call.

Heartened by Oracle's increased faith in me, I dive back into the evidence with renewed energy.


	19. Chapter 19

I'm not sure how long Harley expects to watch the Joker's lair, but I'm prepared to wait a while. I don't want her realizing what my real plan is. Luckily Harley has a very short attention span, and within two hours she's bored.

"Can we just go already?" she groans. "Bats won't catch up to Mistah J this fast."

I almost tell her to be patient, that we have no idea when the Batman will locate the Joker so we have to monitor him as much as we can, before I remember that I don't need to be here anymore.

"Fine," I tell her as I start the car, "We'll come back tomorrow night." It won't be fun watching a place that I'll already know is uninhabited, but I'm going to have to keep up the ruse if I don't want Harley to become suspicious.

By the time we've driven back to the motel, I've finished planning out my day tomorrow. I'll make sure to leave the duffel bag full of supplies in my car; bringing them to work, or at least appearing to in Harley's eyes, would be a bad idea. I'll leave when I usually do to head to the GCPD, letting Harley think that's where I'm going. Then I'll head to the comedy club and sneak inside. If I'm lucky, the Joker will be alone. If I'm not, I'll have to improvise, but so far the average thugs common to Gotham haven't posed any type of challenge. After that, I'll have a few hours to have a heart to heart with Gotham's most notorious criminal mastermind.

As we enter the motel, Harley stretches a little, as if she's tired, but as soon as the door closes she pulls her shirt off and turns to me.

"Coming to bed?" she asks solicitously.

For less than a second I actually have a bit of a sinking feeling. It's a terrible idea to get involved with a woman who seems to be turned on by stalking her psychotic boyfriend. I push that aside. This will all be worth it once I have the Joker on my table. Besides, as I watch Harley strip, I can't help but think the fringe benefits aren't too bad.

* * *

><p>Hours after Oracle called me, the extra energy I got from her vote of confidence has run dry. One of the hardest things to do when I'm trying to save lives is to walk away, but sometimes I have to accept that the best thing I can do is rest.<p>

Right now I have no new leads. I could keep combing through the evidence, and maybe I would find something, but that seems unlikely. The better idea is to finally get a decent night's sleep so I'll have the energy to deal with anything tomorrow.

Based on Oracle's estimate of forty-eight hours, I'll need my rest. She probably won't have anything until late at night, and I'll need to be alert.

I finally push away from the computer and head upstairs, out of the cave and into the opulently decorated halls of Wayne Manor.

* * *

><p>My eyes snap open as soon as my alarm goes off. I'm fully awake within seconds, primed to end the Joker's life. I'm so focused on the task at hand that it takes me until I'm done showering to notice that Harley's gone.<p>

At first I can't believe it, refuse to believe she could leave without me noticing. I glance outside, hoping she went to get some fresh air or get ice or something like that, but no one is in sight.

"Face it Dex," Harry tells me, "She's gone."

I pound the wall in frustration. "Where would she even go?" I ask.

"To get food, to rob a bank, to the nearest amusement park," Harry shrugs, listing off suggestions. "Harley's too unpredictable."

"She wasn't worth it to get to the Joker," I say as I lean against the wall behind me.

"That depends on perspective. Killing the Joker could save thousands of lives," Harry answers. "Not that that's your biggest concern," he adds.

"I have enough problems without being judged by a figment of my imagination, thanks." I start pacing back and forth along the short hallway from the front door of the motel room to the more open space further in.

"Think about this, Dex," Harry urges me. "Yes, she could be anywhere, but that's to your advantage. There's only a few places she could go that are really a problem for you."

"Yeah," I agree, "Like going to the GCPD or the Batman and telling them about me."

"Except that she has no reason to do that. She's not exactly a fan of law and order."

"Plus I'm not even sure anyone can just find the Batman that easily." I sigh. "So what else? Where else is a problem for me?"

"I think you know," Harry replies.

I just stop and stare at him for a second. I don't even need to say it. I just turn and bolt out of the motel room to my car. After breaking every traffic law I know of, I reach the comedy club Harley and I staked out last night. I park and wait for a moment, not sure what to do.

As I watch the building, I see Harley, decked out in her black and red jester costume and white make-up, making a beeline for the dilapidated structure. She pushes through the wide double-doors of the entrance and disappears into the darkness. I almost want to leave, sure that someone has to have reported seeing her – she is, after all, walking around like that in broad daylight – but then I remember that people in Gotham are zealots about minding their own business.

I take a full syringe from the duffel bag and step out of the car before I casually walk across the street. Instead of following Harley's lead, I head around the side, looking for a better way in. I see it immediately: a side door that looks like an employee's entrance. I slip inside, taking a minute to let my eyes adjust to the darkness.

Deeper inside the club I can hear voices. One's high pitched, nasal, and triumphant. I can't tell what she's saying, but I know it's Harley. The other voice is lower and angry. It has to be the Joker.

As I move in, I start to make out words.

"-what do you think of that?" Harley asks, continuing to gloat.

"I think it's a bad idea to give away the punch line before you've even finished with the setup," the joker growls in response before I hear the sound of a fist hitting flesh. Harley shrieks and then I hear a crash.

I edge forward down the dark hallway, stopping where it opens up into a theatre. There's a small stage to the left. The rest of the large space is empty, although it would have been once filled with the tables and chairs I can see stacked in a haphazard pile in one corner.

There are a few bulky shapes hidden under drop cloths. The one opposite me is obviously a bar, from the shape and the bottles behind it. Something else, what looks like a box, but taller than I am, is shoved to the wall just to the right of the doorway I'm standing in.

I can't see Harley or the Joker yet, so I move in a little further, using the box draped in cloth as cover. Peering around it, I see Harley on the ground, trembling and trying to move away. The Joker is looming over her, furious.

It looks like she was right: for some reason, the Joker isn't exactly happy about anyone trying to kill his worst enemy.

I freeze where I am, hesitating. I could go out there, take the Joker down and then kill him. But if I do that, then Harley will try to kill me. Even with all the abuse, she'd still defend the Joker to the death.

I can just as easily walk away. I'm not sure if Harley would tell the Joker every detail of her plan, but I doubt it. I can probably assume the Joker won't come after me, and he has no reason to move to a new base of operations within the next couple hours. If I leave now, I can come back when this is over. The Joker might kill Harley, but she's just as psychotic a killer as he is.

As much as I tell myself that, as much as I reassure myself that Harley deserves to die at least as much as anyone else I've killed, I can't help looking at her right now, barely able to stand, not even willing to defend herself, and pitying her. She's been cruelly manipulated for years, and while that doesn't make her innocent, it mitigates at least some of her guilt.

Just as I'm about to choose my course of action, my decision is made for me when a sudden, loud laughing sound comes from under the drop cloth next to me. I step away from it, and the cloth slides a little downwards from the movement inside the cage, almost exposing me.

"Bud! Lou!" The Joker calls out, turning his attention away from Harley, "What are you two going on about?"

The laughing behind the tarp doubles in volume, and the box gives another shake as I back up two more steps. The cloth shifts and falls completely away, revealing a cage containing two hyenas.

Wait, hyenas? Really? Add that to the list of animals that hate me I guess.

Unfortunately the cage gives the Joker and Harley a clear view of me. In less than a second, I grab my syringe from my pocket, uncap it, and then step out to face the Joker.

"An intruder, eh?" the Joker asks. "I'll show you for interrupting my heartfelt reunion with Harley." He leans down and picks up a crowbar from the floor, before he runs at me, swinging it.

I duck out of the way and sidestep, neatly avoiding the Joker's rush towards me. I'm reminded of the crime scene at the warehouse a few days ago, and my conclusion that the Joker has no real ability to fight, relying on pure aggression. It looks like I was right.

"Who the hell are you, anyways?" the Joker demands as he turns around, preparing for another attack.

I can't resist. Besides, I'm pretty sure throwing him into an apoplectic rage will make him even more useless in hand to hand combat. "I'm the guy who slept with your girlfriend," I answer.

Harley gasps and claps a hand to her mouth while the Joker lets out a yell and charges for me again. I'm amused to notice that he swings the crowbar three times before he's even anywhere near me. Once he closes in, I barely have to move to avoid the crowbar, and step forward to end up behind the Joker, plunging the needle into his neck and pushing the M-99 into his carotid artery.

The Joker jerks away from the needle and turns to me, looking more shocked than unconscious. "What was that?" he asks, genuinely intrigued.

"High powered animal tranquilizer?" I offer, not really sure how else I should answer.

The Joker tilts back his head and laughs. "They have yet to invent a drug that works the way it should on me," he crows.

So the Joker's file, if anything, understated his immunity to most known toxins. I thought that was some kind of urban legend, most likely spread by the Joker himself. Next I'll find out that there are actual superpowers.

"Now then," the Joker says, his laughter subsiding and his voice dropping back to its previous, darker tones, "Where were we?"

In a split second, the Joker swings the crowbar again. This time I grab it out of the air and yank it out of his hands. His face assumes a comically surprised expression for a second before I bring the crowbar down onto his neck as hard as I can and he drops.

For a moment, everything is silent.

"What did you do to him?" Harley begs, suddenly standing and coming forward. "Is he ok?"

"He should be," I reply. The force of the impact on his neck would have caused a massive fluctuation in the blood pressure in his brain, making it shut down in response. He'll be unconscious for a while, giving me time to get ready.

Harley breathes a sigh of relief as she checks the Joker's pulse. She stands and looks at me.

"I know I shouldn'ta come here," she says apologetically. "Can we just go and forget this happened?"

She looks so scared and hurt, I can't bring myself to tell her what I've been planning. "Fine," I say, motioning for her to go first.

I let her turn towards the front door and walk a few steps before I wrap my right arm around her neck, putting her in a sleeper hold. She doesn't even try to struggle. In a few minutes, I've shot her up with enough M-99 to be unconscious for hours and left her to sleep in the backseat of my car.

* * *

><p>"Master Wayne," Alfred's voice breaks through into my dreams, "Miss Gordon is on the telephone."<p>

I go from asleep to awake and completely alert instantly, sitting up and picking up the phone beside my bed.

"Hello, Barbara," I greet her cheerfully.

"Forty-eight hours my ass," she says back.

* * *

><p>I set the slide, now holding a drop of the Joker's blood, on the surface next to me and walk around the Joker to pore over my knives and decide what to use first before I quickly pass those up for the open cabinet behind the Joker's head.<p>

When I first explored the white, tiled room, the large, rectangular metal cabinet was the only object. I wasn't going to use the room at first, since it necessitated dragging in a few tables, but I had to check out what the Joker was storing here first. Opening the cabinet revealed that this was probably not the first time someone had used this room for the purpose I was now using it for.

The cabinet didn't have shelves, but slots on the back wall. It was well organized, with the slots at eye level holding the smallest of the knives, and the blades becoming larger as my eyes travelled upwards. There were easily over a hundred of them, and even though they made up the bulk of the contents of the cabinet, they were far from being the only tools inside.

Below the knives was a vast array of implements. I spot a chainsaw, but immediately reject it. I don't like chainsaws – too messy. I also note a golf club, a rake, a stapler, a pool noodle, a rubber chicken and a lawn ornament shaped like a pink flamingo. The Joker would be into prop comedy.

There's also a huge variety of blunt instruments, mostly all sizes and shapes of hammers.

"Well, well, well," says the Joker from his position behind me, tied down with cling wrap, "This is interesting. What're you gonna do now, have your way with me?"

"Huh," I answer, amused and smirking, picking up one of the smaller hammers and turning around, "Harley said something similar when she saw one of my kill rooms. Speaking of Harley…"

I bring the hammer down on the Joker's left arm. He doesn't flinch. I'm pretty sure the arm has to be broken, but then again I don't usually try to break bones. Not unless I'm using a saw and the flesh has already been cleared away. I raise the hammer again, bringing it down as hard as I can. When the Joker still doesn't react, I keep going until his arm is little more than a pulpy mass.

"Are you done already?" the Joker asks lazily when I stop. I slam the hammer down on the table next to my knives and grab my reciprocating saw instead. "By the way, about Harley," the Joker continues, "She'll come after you, ya know."

"Really? Because she's the one who told me where you were." I walk around the table, trying to make up my mind on where to cut. "I can see why you kept her around though. She's useful."

The Joker lets out a low growl. I wouldn't have expected to touch a nerve by bringing up Harley, but maybe the Joker's just possessive.

"It's not just Harley you have to worry about," the Joker says, instantly losing going from furious to affable. He sounds cheerful, but teasing.

I sigh. I know what's coming. "All you so-called 'super-criminals' seem to take it for granted that you're going to run into the Batman. I'm beginning to think you're all just really bad at not getting caught."

"Oh, is that it then?" the Joker asks slyly. "If that's the case, then who's that guy in the cape behind you?"

My blood goes cold and I freeze momentarily. Was I really so focused on the Joker that I didn't hear anyone entering the building? It wouldn't have been the first time. I glance down at the saw in my hand – it's far too short to be useful as a weapon, since it won't have any reach, but it's better than nothing – and I grip it tightly as I whip around to face the open doorway behind me.

Nothing's there.

Of course no one's there. If there was, the Joker wouldn't be able to see them. He can't even turn his head to see the doorway.

I smirk, even as I admit to myself I should have seen through the Joker's lie, and turn back to face him. "Nice try," I say. "Wishful thinking?"

The Joker attempts to shrug despite the fact that he can barely move. "Can't blame a guy for being optimistic."

"Optimistic that your worst enemy shows up to save you?" I ask, incredulous. "That's pretty pathetic."

The Joker goes silent, his smile fading to a thin line across his face. I make a note that calling him pathetic gets to him, especially if it's warranted, but I won't have that long to use that particular factoid.

I fire up the saw and its whine fills the room. It's muffled a little when I push it into the bleached white flesh of the Joker's ankle, but still loud. As I work my way through the skin and muscle around the joint, the flesh offering no resistance to the saw, the Joker starts laughing. When I'm barely through the first layers of skin, it's just a low chuckle, but by the time I've cut through the bone, neatly severing the foot, he's worked his way up to a belly laugh.

I step away from the puddle that's forming at the end of the table, walking towards the Joker's head, unable to believe what I'm seeing. Tears are streaming from the Joker's eyes. It's not as if I've never seen that from a victim before, but never accompanied by an ear to ear grin.

I watch him laugh for a moment, wondering if he actually enjoys pain, or just revels in violence to the extent that it doesn't particularly matter that it's directed at him.

Even over the Joker's crazed laughter, I detect a rustling behind me – plastic sheeting on plastic sheeting. I haven't even consciously realized what this means when I duck.

I feel a rush of air over my head. I don't bother to turn around and see the source of it. Running on pure instinct, I dart to the other side of the room, putting the table with the still hysterical Joker on it between me and whoever just entered the room. Only then do I have a moment to look towards the door.

Fuck. I don't like admitting the Joker was right, but a little embarrassment on that front is the least of my worries at this point. Right now I have to concentrate on looking for an escape.

The man standing in the doorway, his cape and mask making him easily recognizable as the Batman, shifts his weight, preparing to move forward by a step. Before I've even considered what I'm doing, I grab a long, sharp knife from the table behind me and point it at the Joker's neck.

"Don't move," I say before the Batman has even managed to put his foot down, "Or the Joker dies."

I instantly regret my decision. There's no way taking a mass murderer hostage could possibly be the best available option.

* * *

><p>Review if you hate cliffhangers! I'll try to get the next chapter done ASAP so I don't leave you guys in suspense too long.<p>

PS - If your review is 'how is this gonna end?' or some variant on 'will X happen?', hehe, NOPE. You're just gonna have to wait and see...


	20. Chapter 20

I'm not sure what I was expecting while driving to the address Oracle gave me. When I'm dealing with the Joker, it's best not to make any assumptions. But when I reached my destination, a decrepit comedy club, I made a few guesses.

For one thing, the Joker was using this place as a base of operations. It's exactly the type of thing that would appeal to him.

For another thing, he was probably inside. As was whatever he'd amassed in order to carry out whatever his sick plan was.

These suspicions were confirmed when I snuck inside and heard the maniacal laughter of the Joker. As I made my way through the club, hearing the laughter get louder, I also made out a whine that sounded like some sort of power tool.

I hesitated a little. I had no idea what that could mean, but it couldn't be good.

I pushed onwards, and the sound led me to a room backstage. The room was obviously well lit, but the doorway was covered by a translucent plastic tarp, and I couldn't make out anything through it besides some vague shapes. I steeled myself and pushed through.

It took less time for my body to react to the sight than my brain took to process it, and before I understood what was happening, I flung my fist forward to strike the man standing near the door, but hit only air as he ducked and quickly moved out of reach, before picking up a deadly looking knife and putting it to the Joker's neck.

"Don't move," he says, and I stop my own unconscious instinct to move forward, "Or the Joker dies."

We both freeze, and I finally have time to process the scene in front of me. The Joker, the pallor of his skin highlighted by the powerful overhead light, is lying on a table. He, like every surface in the room, is covered in clear plastic, with enough layers wrapped tight around him to prevent any movement.

Even as part of me reels in disgust, another part of me realizes that the plastic explains why so many have vanished without a trace. Even the crime scenes would have been spotless. It occurs to me that I've probably even been in some of these crime scenes without noticing.

In contrast to the colourlessness of the room and the Joker's white skin, two bloody red wounds glare at me. The first is little more than a scratch on the Joker's cheek, although several thick rivulets stream down his face. The second is to his leg, where his foot has been severed. A puddle is already growing on the floor from the torrent flowing from his ankle.

In the second it took me to take in the details in front of me, the man holding the knife hasn't moved a muscle. He doesn't have the air of a man backed into a corner, and seems unnaturally calm, although I don't doubt his mind is going as fast as mine.

He's also familiar. I saw him two nights ago, at the Scarecrow's lair. He's working for the GCPD, one of the crime scene analysts brought in from outside. I know I saw his ID card. I think back, trying to recall the name.

Finally, the silence between us is broken.

"Look out," the Joker exclaims, "He's got a hostage!"

"Be quiet," the man with the knife answers, his voice steady and composed, "You really don't want to piss me off right now."

"Ooh, what'll happen then?" the Joker giggles, "You'll tie me up and dismember me? Oh wait."

* * *

><p>My grip tightens on the knife. I'm desperately trying to think of a plan, and the Joker's sense of humour isn't helping me.<p>

At this point, it's fairly obvious I don't have many options. The Batman is blocking my only exit, and any attempt to flee means going through him. Unless I can cause a distraction. The fact that he stopped when I threatened the Joker gives me an idea.

With my knife directly on the Joker's throat, the Batman can't do much to stop me from killing the Joker. By the time I've decided to go through with it, it will already be too late. But people can survive wounds to the neck; they just require immediate medical attention. If the Batman is as devoted to preventing any deaths, including the Joker's, a serious wound might make him more likely to stay here to try to save the Joker, giving me the chance to get as far away as possible.

Of course, that only helps me if the Batman doesn't remember seeing me.

"You don't have to do this," the Batman says authoritatively. "Put the knife down."

This elicits another giggle from the Joker. "You know things are going well when the man dressed as a flying rodent is the voice of reason."

I realize he's right. "Bats aren't rodents," I point out.

Well, mostly right. The Batman can't be all that well balanced. A severe mental illness is likely to prevent him from being able to recognize me.

"Anyways," I continue, making up my mind on my course of action, "I don't see how putting the knife down helps my situation in any way, so no thanks."

* * *

><p>Suddenly my memory of the crime scene clicks into place and I remember the man's name. Dexter Morgan.<p>

"This ends here," I tell him. "Look around you Morgan. You have nowhere to go."

He starts a little at the use of his name. He's beginning to realize how trapped he is.

* * *

><p>Scratch that plan.<p>

Now that the Batman has made it obvious he knows who I am, that leaves me with very few options. Clearly I can't just run out of here anymore, since the Batman will just tell his friend Commissioner Gordon what I've been doing. Even if I had time to get rid of every shred of evidence and I'm not arrested on the accusations of the guy dressed as a small nocturnal mammal, his word will mean that I'll have to deal with people's suspicions for the rest of my life.

I can't put Harrison through that.

A few years ago, when Doakes found out what I am, I couldn't bring myself to kill him, but the situation has changed. I have my son to think about. I realize that, to protect Harrison from the truth, I would kill someone, even if they don't match the code, in a heartbeat.

I'm not sure if I would be a match for the Batman though, even with the array of weapons behind me. On the other hand, the Batman is a vigilante himself, and even with the tacit approval of the GCPD, he does technically operate outside the law. Maybe he'll listen to reason.

Hey, I can dream, can't I?

Really, my only option is to kill the Batman, but there's no way I'm going to try anything unless I get the element of surprise. If I can keep him talking, maybe I can give him a false sense of security.

Besides, now that he's standing in front of me, I have to admit I'm curious about what he has to say.

"You don't kill, right?" I finally ask, my decision made.

* * *

><p>I narrow my eyes at the question. I don't know what Morgan's planning. I don't know if he even has a plan. I'm not sure what to expect from him. Despite being caught literally red-handed and backed into a corner, he's still unsettlingly calm.<p>

And now this question. What's he getting at?

"That's right!" the Joker answers, apparently getting bored at my lack of a response. "Batsy here is a paragon of virtue, a beacon to all us common criminals."

Morgan doesn't even glance at the Joker, ignoring his response. He's apparently decided, as I have, to completely ignore the Joker's additions to the conversation. At least he's learned the best way to deal with the clown quickly.

"No, I don't," I reply.

A corner of Morgan's mouth twitches up, signifying his first display of emotion I've seen. I'm not sure where he's going with this, but I don't like that he's amused by it.

"So no matter what I do, the worst case scenario for me is you arrest me," he points out.

I can't think of a response. I'm too distracted by the implications of that sentence.

* * *

><p>By the way the Batman swallows and sets his jaw, I can tell he's not planning on dignifying that with a response. He shows about as much emotion as I do, but I can tell from his posture that he's furious. I can't possibly be the first person to exploit his aversion to killing, can I?<p>

"So tell me why I shouldn't perform just one more good deed?" I continue, since the Batman won't take the initiative. And I thought I was bad at small talk.

"It's not a good deed," the Batman says, answering quickly, evidently provoked by my question. "It's wrong."

* * *

><p>Morgan flashes another half-smile, infuriatingly amused by the situation.<p>

"How so?" he asks, feigning innocent curiosity.

I grit my teeth. Does he really think there's nothing wrong with this? More importantly, does he think he can convince me of that opinion?

A low chuckle issues from the Joker. "This outta be good."

"Because it's murder," I say, low enough that Morgan would almost have to strain to hear me.

* * *

><p>The Batman doesn't sound angry so much as he sounds disappointed. Does this 'exasperated-father-dealing-with-bratty-kids' thing normally intimidate the criminals he deals with?<p>

"It's justifiable homicide," I counter, using the same low tone.

* * *

><p>There are situations where violence against someone like the Joker is called for. Looking at Morgan's set up, I don't see how anyone could think this was one of those situations.<p>

"There's no justification when your victim is at your mercy," I tell him.

"There is," Morgan says flippantly, "If they'll kill again if you don't."

"He won't kill again," I growl. "I'll make sure of it."

* * *

><p>Keeping calm when you don't have feelings isn't that difficult, but sometimes it's not a possibility. The Batman's comment surprises me, and I give a short, derisive laugh.<p>

"Really?" I ask in disbelief. "Do you say that every time you bring the Joker to Arkham, or did you just decide that now?"

The Batman's eyes narrow, but he doesn't respond. It doesn't matter. I know the answer. He's been dragging the Joker kicking and screaming back to Arkham for years, telling himself that this time they'll finally have gotten their act together just enough to prevent raving lunatics from wandering off, knowing that it's only a matter of time until another break-out.

"Are you really going to tell me the world won't be a better place without the Joker?" I finally continue. "Dozens? Hundreds? How many more deaths does it take for you to admit he needs to be stopped permanently?"

* * *

><p>I haven't been this angry in a long time. Many of the criminals I've fought were victims of circumstances, forced into a life of crime. Others, like Joker, were just pure evil. Somehow, even that was less infuriating than someone performing the most evil acts while playing innocent. I'm about to say something to that effect when the Joker interrupts me.<p>

"I'm right here ya know," he pipes up, rolling his eyes. "Sheesh, talk about me like I'm not in the room why don't ya."

The Joker is also often infuriating, but right now the brief distraction he's provided diffused some of my fury. I'm not going to talk Morgan out of killing the Joker if I insult him.

"I can understand your anger, but this is not the way to do things," I tell him. "Even one more death is too many."

"Yeah?" he says, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise. "It's too bad that's not an option then. Right now the choice is between the Joker's life and the lives of everyone else he'll eventually kill."

"I refuse to accept that," I snap back in a deep growl. "There's always a better way."

Morgan doesn't flinch. If anything, he looks bored.

* * *

><p>Not having morals, it's hard for me to judge whether people are correct when they tell me something is or isn't moral. So many of them insist that actions can be categorized as good or bad despite the real-world results.<p>

Not that I'd call what I do 'good', but the outcome should count as a mitigating factor.

"I'm sure the people who've lost their lives would have been very comforted that you took the high road," I say, suppressing a smile.

* * *

><p>I grit my teeth, but Morgan's comment makes me angrier at myself than him.<p>

I know the Joker, as well as Cobblepot, Crane, Croc, Zsasz and so many others, have caused an incalculable amount of suffering. I know that killing the Joker years ago would have prevented deaths. But that doesn't change anything.

I could never kill to preserve life, even if the life I took was the Joker's. The fact that some good might come of an act doesn't change the fact that it's wrong. Besides, if I made the decision that there were some circumstances that allowed the most vile actions, where would I draw the line? How many steps would it take before I justified taking innocent lives in order to prevent deaths that may not even happen?

* * *

><p>The Batman hasn't responded yet. It's getting harder not to smile, but watching him try to think of the words to justify his actions, or lack thereof, to me, while he's clearly struggling to rationalize them to himself is sort of amusing.<p>

"Aw, don't get so down on yourself Bats," the Joker says, derailing Batman's undoubtedly demoralizing train of thought, much to my disappointment. "This guy may act all high and mighty, but deep down he's just enjoying himself. A man after my own heart," the Joker finishes with a twisted grin.

"I thought I told you to shut up," I warn him darkly.

"Hell," the Joker continues blithely, ignoring me, "Check out that neat little souvenir he's taking on the table behind you."

* * *

><p>I step back, turning my body but keeping my eyes on Morgan. After searching his face for a moment, I decide he won't try anything stupid in the next few seconds. My eyes flick to the table behind me and back before he has a chance to react.<p>

The table was clear with the exception of a small object. I didn't look long enough to make it out, but it was obvious in even a cursory glance. The bright red stood out from the counter, whitened by the clear plastic tarp.

Without looking again, I pick up the object to get a better look. Even examining it closely, it takes me some time to realize what it is.

The item is clear and rectangular, with a red circle in the middle. I hold it up, letting the powerful overhead light stream through it, making the red spot seem to glow.

And then it all makes sense. Morgan's a blood spatter analyst. This red spot is blood, the Joker's blood, squeezed between two microscope slides.

The Joker was wrong when he called this a souvenir. It's more than that. This is a trophy. People who believe they're doing evil acts for the greater good feel guilty about those acts. Someone who takes trophies is doing it purely for the thrill.

I look back at Morgan. If he's realised that I know what the slide represents, his face doesn't show it. I move the slide into the palm of my hand and crush it, breaking it into pieces.

Finally I get a reaction. Morgan winces when he hears the glass break, and I take my opportunity. I fling a batarang at his chest.

* * *

><p>I ignore the reflex to dodge whatever the Batman just threw at me, using the knife in my hand to deflect it. The blade is only away from the Joker's neck for a second. Apparently that was all the Batman needed.<p>

As the odd, bat-shaped projectile clatters to the floor halfway across the room, the Batman vaults over the table between us, launching himself at me. I just barely manage to sidestep out of the way before he lands on the other side of the Joker, knocking the small table I've been using to hold my knives to the ground. I back away as sharp, silver instruments fall to the floor, sliding away from me.

At least I held on to the one I was threatening the Joker with.

Without even slowing down, the Batman turns, following my retreat. He's fast, and closes the distance between us nearly instantly. I lash forward at him with the knife, getting him to back up a step.

I don't have a choice anymore. It's come down to this, and I'm not staying on the defensive.

* * *

><p>Morgan slashes at me with the knife and I move back. He follows me as I step back, continuing to hack at the air. It's not that his aim is off. He keeps hitting the space my neck was inhabiting a fraction of a second ago.<p>

He knows what he's doing, and he's fast. He's just not fast enough. Morgan stabs forward, and I grab his hand as I evade it. I've barely touched him when I realize his grip is like steel, and I immediately decide not to try to disarm him just yet. Instead I pull his arm, forcing him to lean far more forward than he intended to. He's jerked off balance and falls forward, catching himself with his free hand. I realize a second too late that I've thrown him to the ground where his knives landed.

From his kneeling position, Morgan looks over his shoulder at me, his eyes containing nothing but bloodlust. He picks up a huge stainless steel butcher knife near his hand and flings it at me, jumping to his feet as he throws it and following the blade. I knock the knife out of the way with my hand, but its blade is facing my hand when I hit it, and its weight allows the edge to slice through my glove. A small drop of my blood falls to the floor.

The pain barely registers before Morgan reaches me. He swings the carving knife down, and I bring my bleeding hand up to deflect him again. My reaction isn't quite fast enough this time. I push Morgan's knife to the side a few inches before it hits me.

Fortunately the blade hits my upper arm, which is heavily armoured, but it's sharp and is slowed, but not quite stopped by the Kevlar. The knife pierces through the black armour, and Morgan buries it into my arm.

Ignoring the pain screaming at me from just under my shoulder, I bring my arm up and shove Morgan's head into the table the Joker is still tied to and throw him to the ground in front of me. He rolls onto his front, getting ready to get up again despite the injury to his head.

I don't let him stand. I step onto his back, pushing him down. He struggles, but there's nothing he can do with my weight bearing down directly on his back. He's finished.

I shake my head as I pull the knife from my arm and toss it away. "All this effort," I murmur, "For no real reason."

* * *

><p>Keep reviewing if you still hate cliffhangers!<p>

Wait, is calling this a cliffhanger giving away that this isn't over yet? Oops...


	21. Chapter 21

I shouldn't be in this position. I shouldn't be lying on the ground, the Batman's foot on my back, holding me down, the Joker's still growing puddle of blood just inches from my face. I struggle, trying to get away from the blood, but the Batman's foot just presses down harder.

Right now, I should be standing over the Batman's body as he bleeds out. I would be there, if my knife hadn't hit him a few inches too low. If I had just hit his shoulder, where his armour has a gap to allow his arm to move, I would have sliced right through the subclavian vein. The Batman would have gone down in seconds.

Right now, all I can feel is rage. I should be able to admit that it's a little misplaced. Technically the law is on the Batman's side. Most people would probably agree that morality is on his side too. But I won't admit he's right.

For one thing, the Batman may consider himself above killing, but bringing me to the police is nothing less than killing me. Whether I'm imprisoned and tried in Gotham or dragged back to Miami, I'll be executed once I'm found guilty. Harrison will be orphaned. Deb's career will be over; even if no one ever figures out she knew what I am, everyone will question her abilities and she'll quickly be forced to resign from the lack of confidence.

And what's the benefit of stopping me? Saving the Joker's life? I would have stopped him for good, and who would have missed him, besides Harley? Half of Gotham would be partying in the streets if they knew he was gone. And now, instead, it's only a matter of time before yet another news report detailing how many he's killed in his latest bombing or bank heist or whatever happens next.

And despite all that, the Batman's standing on top of me, feeling justified in stopping me. Rage feels like the appropriate reaction.

That and disgust with the blood that keeps spreading towards me. I try again to edge away from it, but I can't move. I'm about to start thrashing to try to get away when the Batman's voice distracts me from the source of my discomfort.

"All this effort for no real reason," he mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.

The statement turns all my rage into irritation. I always hear a similar sentiment at every crime scene. What it always means is that the person saying it wants to think there's no reason behind it. Then they'd have to understand.

The Batman spends his time tracking down criminals and yet can't even be bothered to make an effort at understanding.

"There's always a reason," I retort.

"I doubt that."

"Then you're an idiot," I tell him, my eyes on the blood still creeping towards me, which at least has mercifully slowed down. The Joker's heart must be slowing a bit. The Batman pushes down harder on me.

"There's no way anything could have happened to you to justify this," he growls.

"I didn't say that, I said there's a reason. Not that you seem interested."

The Batman pauses at my accusation of indifference. "Try me," he says.

I hesitate. I'm not sure I want to tell Batman something that personal. On the other hand, if he drags me to prison everyone, even people I've never met, will know anyways. Besides, with the Joker's blood flow slowing, a few minutes of talking to the Batman might be enough to kill him, and he shouldn't be allowed to walk away from this.

"My mother was murdered in front of me," I confess.

Amazingly, the weight on my back disappears. I scramble to my feet, rushing to get away from the blood, before I turn to face the Batman questioningly. He looks as confused as I am. I'm not sure even he knows why he let me stand.

"What did you say?" he asks.

"I am the way I am because my mother was murdered in front of me," I shrug. "I was three. A chainsaw was involved," I clarify.

The Batman actually gapes at me, momentarily at a loss for words.

* * *

><p>"And you think that gives you an excuse?" I hiss once Morgan's answer had sunk in.<p>

"No," Morgan admits, "But it's why I have to do this."

I know that most of the criminals I chase were also deeply affected by past traumas. I know watching my parents die changed me. But I really wasn't expecting Morgan to give me an answer that sounded so familiar.

It's not just his trauma that sounds familiar though. It's also his off-hand explanation that he needs to do this. I can understand that better than I'd like to admit. Night after night I need to go out and make things right, to try and somehow fix my past by stopping more atrocities now.

I even have to admit that sometimes it's incredibly satisfying to cause a little incidental pain to those who deserve it in the pursuit of justice.

* * *

><p>I look at the Batman, still puzzled. I was expecting my answer to be surprising, but not so shocking that he'd make a mistake like letting me stand. I guess it's not such a huge mistake though, considering he's standing between me and my knives, and even with the wound just under his shoulder I'm no match for the Batman unarmed.<p>

Still, even if I don't have another chance to take the Batman down, maybe this gives me a chance to talk him out of arresting me. His principles seem pretty absolute, but mentioning my mother's murder seems to have hit close to home. Even now, the Batman has lost his angry edge, instead looking pensive.

"Look," I say gently, not wanting to destroy this opportunity before I've even started, "If you're not willing to stop the Joker for the people he's killed, what about the rest of his victims? What about the ones had to live and deal with what he did to them?"

The Batman shakes his head. "They couldn't have all turned out like you."

"Enough of them would have." I scowl down at the Joker, who has mercifully remained silent this whole time. "Monsters like him create more monsters."

* * *

><p>Morgan, like all psychopaths, is good at faking emotions. He's been convincing so far, although that illusion was shattered for a few minutes, along with the microscope slide. Now it's more believable than ever as he glares at the Joker. Considering his story, it's possible his apparent hatred towards the Joker is real.<p>

But what he said about the Joker making more monsters bothers me. Does he realize what he's implying about himself?

"What about you?" I ask, wondering if he's thought about the connotations.

"Me?" he repeats, smiling slightly. "Monsters like me prefer not to be noticed."

At least he doesn't hold any illusions about himself.

"Even if that's all true," I start.

"It is," Morgan interrupts.

"Even if you mean every word," I continue, being more specific, "That still doesn't mean the Joker deserves to die."

"He doesn't deserve to live, either," Morgan replies without hesitation.

* * *

><p>The Joker, who has remained quiet although silently shaking with mirth, apparently can't take it anymore and suddenly dissolves into gales of insane laughter.<p>

"That's genius!" he exclaims in between cackles. "I can't say I've ever thought of it that way!"

"What way?" the Batman growls threateningly.

"Like the man said," the Joker tries to indicate me with his chin but fails, "About me 'making monsters'."

"What about it?" I ask in a tone similar to the one the Batman just used.

The Joker stifles his laughter a little so he can speak more fluently. "Like I said," he starts, "I never thought of it like that. All this time, I thought all the mayhem I could cause would have to be directly caused by yours truly." Another little giggle escapes, but the Joker recovers quickly. "But this way, I cause damage indirectly by messing with little kids." He pauses, thinking. "That is, of course, assuming they witness the mayhem I directly cause and survive. I'll have to institute a new policy of bringing some brats along for the ride and releasing them back into the wild later." With this last statement, the Joker starts laughing hysterically again.

I clench my fists. "I'm not letting you do that," I tell him.

"Actually, based on your story, I don't even have to go that far," he continues, ignoring me. "I can just find some random families and murder the parents right in front of-"

The Joker is cut off when I backhand him across the face hard enough to jar his head loose from the plastic wrap holding him down. Blood splashes out from the cut I made to his cheek.

Too late I remember that I'm trying to talk the Batman out of dragging me to the GCPD. A violent impulse like that was the last thing I wanted him to see. I look from the Joker to the Batman apprehensively.

* * *

><p>Morgan's point about the damage his trauma has done to him has only given the Joker ideas. The Joker has done inexcusable things, but I've never felt this level of revulsion for him before.<p>

Apparently Morgan feels the same way I do. Before I have a chance to react to the Joker's words, his hand whips out, striking the Joker hard enough for the sound to nearly echo off the walls. His rage is evident in his eyes, but it all melts into dread when he looks at me.

He didn't mean for me to see that side of him right now. That look tells me that his every word, gesture and expression up to this point were carefully chosen, manufactured for my benefit, and now he's sure all that work has crumbled away with one careless slip.

That look also tells me that his rage is genuine. Every other emotion he's shown me is likely to be fake, and I'll never know either way, but his anger at the Joker's suggestion is real and all too understandable.

"You said the Joker doesn't deserve to live," I state. "I'm assuming you'd say the same about anyone else you've killed."

Morgan hesitates. "Yes," he finally says, eying me warily.

"How do you decide that?"

* * *

><p>Before, I kept the Batman on the defensive by asking him about his rigid code. Now he's reversed it, and I'm not sure why. What I do know is that keeping this conversation going at least gives me more time to think of an escape plan.<p>

"Same as the Joker," I answer honestly, "I find out if they've killed someone. Someone who didn't deserve to die," I hastily add. I can't have the Batman thinking I'd go after cops who have been involved in a shoot out or something like that.

"What if you get it wrong?" the Batman probes, his eyes narrowing.

"I don't."

"Really?" the Batman asks, although it's said as more of a statement than a question.

"I check."

* * *

><p>I'm not sure what to make of Morgan.<p>

He's clearly a psychopath, and has all of the hallmarks of the kind of remorseless killers I've stopped before, like Zsasz, or even the Joker. At the same time, he goes out of his way to not take innocent lives.

When he spoke of why he does this, he phrased it in terms of a personality trait, not a choice. The Joker was no doubt correct when he said Morgan enjoyed this, but his urge to kill seems like more of a compulsion than a selfish desire like the Joker's.

The best conclusion I can draw about Morgan is that, even if he isn't willing to stop himself, he's found a way to indulge his darker impulses in a way that, he believes, ends the suffering of others. He hasn't reined in his homicidal tendencies, but carefully harnessed it as a tool for his own twisted definition of justice.

I weigh my options and finally make my decision. No matter what his intent is, his actions are wrong, and need to be stopped.

* * *

><p>For a long moment after my answer, neither of us moves. The Batman stares intensely at me, sizing me up.<p>

There's no way I'm talking him out of arresting me. He has his own code, one he'll follow as strictly as I follow mine. But I can't beat him in a fight, not with all his equipment and body armour. I reach as far into my mind as I can, looking for any answer, but the best I've come up with so far is stall, and it's looking like I've run out of time.

I still refuse to accept that this is it though. I think back over what he said, how he acted and reacted, hoping there's something I missed, some key that will get me out of here. I keep going back to his strong reaction to my bit of honesty regarding my past traumas. Something hit a nerve with him there.

Maybe someone close to him was killed. Maybe he was even there to see it. Maybe he has a similar story.

Or maybe this is all just wishful thinking.

I don't even know how that would help me if he did have a past like mine. A clue to the Batman's past could help me find out who he was if I was anywhere else, and had the time to do some research. As it is, I don't have access to enough information about past crimes in Gotham that could have affected whoever the Batman is when he was young. The only crime I've even heard about that fits the bill is the murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne in front of a twelve-year-old Bruce Wayne.

Suddenly I remember Wayne's performance on the news, how he seemed to be hiding something. I also realize that being a billionaire would give the Batman the ability to afford all his bat-themed equipment.

Of course, I still don't know for sure. This is a long shot, my last possible chance.

"I can't let you do this," the Batman says, advancing towards me.

"If you don't," I start, holding my ground despite my desperation, "I'll tell everyone that you're Bruce Wayne."

The Batman doesn't flinch.

* * *

><p>I don't react. I can't let Morgan know he has a bargaining chip.<p>

There's no way he has proof. If anyone got that close, they would have been on my radar long ago. Most likely he's realized that I need an enormous budget, and that Bruce Wayne is one of the few people in Gotham both wealthy enough to finance me and young enough to be me. If I don't give any indication he's right, he might be convinced to drop it. All I need to do is act how I would if I weren't Bruce Wayne – I need to act as if the threat is the most ridiculous thing I've heard.

Astonishingly, the Joker is actually helpful for once, as he dissolves into gales of hysterical laughter. "You," he tries to start between burst of mirth, but fails. After a second, he tries again. "You can't possibly really think," the Joker's words are interrupted again by a more giggles, "That spoiled brat Wayne…" At my name, the Joker loses control completely, and his laughter once more fills the room.

"I'm not Bruce Wayne," I state calmly over the Joker.

Morgan still doesn't flinch. I tell myself again that he can't possibly have any proof, but if he doesn't, he's remarkably lucky to have just randomly guessed correctly.

* * *

><p>A few minutes ago I would have said that taking the Joker hostage was the most desperate thing I'd ever done. It turns out I beat that record impressively fast.<p>

I'm basing my guess at Batman's identity on what could be a few random coincidences. The odds that I'm right are astronomically bad, but if I show the faintest hint of uncertainty, my chances of getting out of this are zero. Whether I'm right or wrong, my only option is to act like I'm sure.

The Batman hasn't even hesitated, but then again, if someone suddenly accused me of being a serial killer, neither would I.

"If that's true," I answer, as the Batman stops inches from me, "Then you won't have any problem with me telling that to everyone who will listen. Not that I'd have any reason to call attention to myself by talking to the press, unless I was in prison."

The Batman doesn't move, and neither do I. I'm all too aware that stepping back even an inch will let him know I don't actually have any proof. Without that, it's doubtful anyone will believe me under any circumstances, especially when even I'm not sure if I believe me.

* * *

><p>I stare at Morgan, looking for anything that will tell me whether he truly knows or is just grasping at straws, when I realize it doesn't matter.<p>

The more sensationalist reporters in Gotham will latch onto even the words of the least reliable source if they think it will give them a story like Batman's identity. It doesn't matter if Morgan has proof, because the more tenacious of the tabloid writers won't stop until they find it. If I thought they wouldn't find it, I'd call Morgan's bluff in a heartbeat, but all it would take is someone who knew what to look for digging into Wayne Enterprise's finances, or finding how Batman's activities lined up with Bruce Wayne's public appearances, or any number of other routes.

Morgan has nothing to lose if he's in prison. Constantly claiming he knows who I am would have no consequences for him, even if he were wrong. But his accusations will not only stop me from protecting Gotham, it will also stop everyone with a personal connection to me. Nightwing, Robin, maybe even Oracle.

I'm not sure if stopping one person is worth being able to stop more in the future. I don't know if my potential future actions should have more importance than my principles, or if I'm just being selfish.

* * *

><p>"Geeze, will you two just make out already?" the Joker says, breaking the long silence as well as the stare, as both the Batman and I turn to glare at him.<p>

"If you killed the Joker," the Batman says, still staring at him, "You wouldn't leave a trace."

It takes me a moment to realize this was meant as a question.

"No, I wouldn't," I answer after a moment's hesitation.

The Batman nods once. His cape sweeps around him as he turns and heads for the door. In the doorway, he looks over his shoulder at me.

"Once you're done here, leave Gotham City," he growls menacingly. "If you kill anyone else before you're out, or if you ever come back to my city again, I will hunt you down."

With that, he strides through the door and down the hallway, never looking back.

My jaw drops. My shot in the dark was, despite all odds, right.

"Well, that's disappointing," the Joker complains.

"You weren't still hoping for that rescue, were you?" I taunt him.

"Not that," he responds with a sneer. "I'm talking about the fact that Bats is Bruce Wayne." He sighs, rolling his eyes. "All this time, my nemesis was that simpering rich little prick. How humiliating. I mean, just kill me now, am I right?"

The sardonic look the Joker shoots me tells me he knows he's setting me up for a punch line.

"If you insist," I oblige him.

* * *

><p>The side door of the comedy club is almost closed behind me before I hear the whine of a saw starting up inside. At least Morgan had the decency to wait until I'd left.<p>

For a moment outside I pause and nearly go back inside to stop the atrocity I know is happening. I struggle with the impulse to stop the Joker's impending death even as I remind myself of how many more he'll kill if I save him.

I hate myself for not stopping this, but at the same time, I hate myself for every death I've failed to stop over the years. And much as I hate to admit it, Morgan's right about one thing. The Joker won't stop killing until he's dead.

I've made hard choices before, choices where I've had to decide between saving a few and saving hundreds. Come to think of it, most of those choices were given to me by the Joker. I try to think of this as one of those choices.

I shake my head and press a button on my wrist, opening my line to Oracle.

"Bruce," Oracle greets me, surprised I'm calling her so soon after arriving at the Joker's hideout, "Did you find anything?"

I hesitate for a second, my conscience screaming at me to tell her everything.

"Bruce?" she asks when I don't reply, "Are you there?"

"I'm here," I force myself to say. "I didn't find anything."

"I'm not really surprised," Oracle answers, "I doubted the Joker would have activated the phone anywhere meaningful."

"Not unless he didn't think anyone would find it before it was too late," I point out.

"True," Oracle admits. "Not that it matters now. What's your next move?"

I give one more glance at the door behind me before I make myself walk away. "I'm going back to the Bat-cave to go over the evidence. Maybe I'll find a new lead."

* * *

><p>Well, that about wraps this up, I guess. I mean, it's not like there's any huge, dangling loose ends left over or anything...<p>

Seriously though, I know there would probably be people who wouldn't be happy no matter how I end this (not that there's anything wrong with that, people are going to have their favourites), but before anyone grabs the torches and pitchforks, I gotta say that this was the only way I could think of to end this. I wasn't about to write Dexter killing Batman, and I like Dexter too much to let Batman drag him off to Blackgate.

Alright, I've said my piece (at least until I finish my wrap up and post it), feel free to tear me a new one in a review ;)


	22. Chapter 22

I'm tearing down the last of the plastic sheeting when I feel something being ground into the floor under my feet. I look down to see the small, blood-covered shards of glass of the microscope slide. My encounter with the Batman made me forget all about it.

I gather the broken glass and throw them into an open garbage bag regretfully. I really wanted that trophy, but I don't bring extra slides with me. I'm ready to just accept it when I remember the empty syringe still in my pocket. I pull it out and fill it with a few milliliters of the blood pooling at the bottom of the garbage bag. All I need is a drop, and I can prepare another slide when I get back to my motel room.

I finish tying up the bags and head outside to move my car closer – it's still broad daylight, and I'm not moving bags of body parts across a city street in the middle of the afternoon. I'm unlocking my car when I detect the same feeling of grinding glass underfoot as I did a few minutes ago.

I stop and look at the ground. Broken glass is sprayed everywhere across the pavement of the parking lot. I follow the path it would have taken, my eyes drawn to the passenger window of my car. I bolt over and look inside, but despite the enormous dose of animal tranquilizers, Harley's gone.

"How could that have happened?" Harry asks me, confused.

"Considering the Joker's reaction to the M-99," I shrug, "Maybe I should have seen that one coming."

"You think she'd be that resistant?" Harry says in disbelief. "Harley shouldn't have been conscious for hours, let alone able to break a window and run off."

"I'm more confused about why she felt the need to break the window. She could have just unlocked the door from the inside."

"She is insane Dexter."

"Good point."

I pace for a second, thinking.

"What are you going to do now?" Harry prods.

"I don't know," I shake my head. "Joker was right, she'll probably come after me, and she knows where I'm staying."

"But you can't kill her. The Batman said he'd come after you if you kill anyone else in Gotham," Harry points out. "Even if he never found the body, he knew she was associating with you," he reasons. "If she disappeared…"

"I know," I sigh. "The Batman also told me to get out of Gotham. If I hurry, I can grab everything from the motel and be at the airport before Harley comes looking for me." I get in the car and start the engine.

"What makes you think she'd take that long?" Harry asks from the passenger seat.

"Her arm is broken. She'll need a weapon. If I'm lucky, it'll take her some time to track one down."

I bring the car to the side door of the club and fill the trunk with the garbage bags inside before I start the drive to Slaughter Swamp on the edge of the city. Unfortunately I'm forced to stick to the speed limit – I don't want to get pulled over for anything, even speeding, with a body in the trunk – but I violate every traffic law I can on my way back. Even at those high speeds, it's sunset by the time I'm pulling into the parking lot of the motel.

I pull into my usual spot, just outside the door to my room, and park. I wait a minute, staring at the door uneasily. Everything looks dark inside. Despite the time it took to get rid of the Joker, it looks like I made it in time. I finally sigh and get out of the car, heading for the door. For all I know, Harley could already be here, watching me from close by, but it doesn't matter. I don't have a choice about going in there, and getting it over with soon is my best chance.

I step inside, closing the door softly behind me. I briefly consider leaving the lights off in case Harley shows up and then shake my head at my own stupidity, since my car is already outside. I flick the light switch and move inside quickly, throwing open the closet and pulling out a black duffel bag which I set on the bed. I don't need to try smuggling my knives through the airport anymore as I've thrown them into the swamp with the Joker, but before I can pack everything else I take the syringe containing the Joker's blood from my pocket and put it on the nightstand as I rifle through the bag for the microscope slides.

Suddenly the TV lights up and blares loudly. I look up at it in surprise before I whirl around to check the rest of the room. Harley's standing there, just barely exiting the washroom where she was hiding, pointing a remote control towards the TV with her left arm, despite its cast. With her other hand she's holding a huge handgun.

"There," she says cheerily, "Now no one will hear us and we won't be disturbed," she adds darkly. She steps forward and I get a better view of her weapon. It's not actually a handgun, as I initially thought, or at least not a conventional one. The bulk of it is made up of some sort of canister, and the wide barrel has a glittering metal object with spikes jutting out of it stuffed inside. A few inches of chain spill out, dangling from the tip. The gun looks like some sort of air gun, like a modified potato gun. Even if it doesn't fire bullets, I don't want that mass of barbs launched at my face.

"Harley," I say, holding my hands up in a placating gesture, "Calm down. Let's talk about this."

"Talk about what?" she asks. "How you killed my Mistah J? Did ya torture him first, like Hatter and Eddy?" Harley continues, tears flowing from her eyes, adding to the dark streaks of mascara already blackening her cheeks. "I don't think I wanna hear anything else from you, thanks. In fact…"

Harley's arm tenses in a gesture I instantly know means she's about to fire. I duck as she squeezes the trigger. The gun makes a loud whooshing sound rather than a bang, and I feel something fly over my head and hear it slam into the wall behind me, throwing splinters of wood away. I charge forward, shoving Harley into the back wall as hard as I can and grabbing the gun away as she's still recovering from the kickback the gun gave. I throw the gun to the other side of the room, pin her against the wall, and wrap my hand around her throat, ready to choke the life out of her until I remember the Batman's warning.

I can't kill Harley. If I kill anyone before I leave Gotham the Batman will follow me to Miami. I'm not letting that happen. Harley's a liability, but Batman is a bigger one. I relax my grip, letting her breathe.

"Remember last night?" I ask her quietly. "You told me how pathetic it makes you feel to keep being pulled back to the Joker. You said that it would be easier if you could let go of the idea that he might love you someday."

Harley lets out a short, cynical laugh as she struggles weakly. "You sayin' you did this for me?" she retorts.

I shake my head. "I'm not going to lie to you. Not anymore." I step back, freeing her to make my point and hopefully win a little trust.

Harley rubs at her neck and stays pressed against the wall, keeping as much distance as she can. "So why did you kill Mistah J then?"

"Because that's what I do," I reply. "I kill killers."

Harley stares at the floor. "And I'm guessin' that means I'm next."

"No," I shake my head and Harley looks up, confused. "I've read about you Harley. You're not completely irredeemable, you've even helped the Batman before. You've been pardoned before. I can understand not being able to stop yourself, but your entire problem stems from the Joker."

Harley sinks to the floor, drawing her legs to her chest. "I don't know if I can live without him," she whispers low enough that I have to strain to hear her.

I crouch to her level. "You have before," I tell her.

"Not for long."

"Then this is an excellent opportunity to try again."

Harley looks up at me. She's definitely not happy about this, but she also looks confused. She knows she's at my mercy, but she can't believe I'm telling her I'm letting her go. Her eyes suddenly drift behind me.

"Is that…" she narrows her eyes and points at the night stand, and I turn to follow her finger, "Is that Mistah J's blood?"

I stand, backing up a step in case Harley gets violent again, but she's still focused on the syringe. I look over as well, not to see the syringe but to finally examine the projectile that Harley fired at me. I didn't have time to look just after it was fired, and in the struggle I'd forgotten about it, but the thick metal chain, covered in sharp spikes, is still imbedded in the wall. Between this and the broken window on the rental car outside, Harley's costing me a fortune in damages for things that were otherwise totally paid for by the GCPD.

"Can I have it?" she finally asks after a few seconds, interrupting my thoughts as she rises to her feet.

"What? Why?"

"Does it matter?"

I move over to the night stand and pick up the syringe, considering it. I really want this trophy, but Harley seems to be on the verge of leaving and I don't want to provoke her over a drop of blood. My back still to her, I put the smallest amount of pressure on the plunger before I turn and hand the syringe over. Harley looks down at it, entranced.

"Can I also get my gun back?" she asks, still staring downwards.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"You can take the air canister off, if it makes ya nervous."

I relent, since it seems like I've almost gotten her to leave, and retrieve the gun, unscrewing the canister, which separates from the weapon with a slight pop. I pass the gun over.

"Thanks," Harley says with a slight smile. "It's dangerous for a girl out there." She turns around, heading out of the room. She's opened the door when she turns back to me. "Maybe I'll look you up sometime," she says over her shoulder with an evil grin. "You live in Miami, right?"

I glower at her in response, but she just giggles.

"Oh relax," she laughs. "I couldn't make it across that many state lines anyways. You really need to lighten up, ya know." With that, she slips outside and slams the door behind her.

I breathe a quick sigh of relief before I go back to rifling through the bag on the bed. Along with the microscope slide I was looking for earlier, I pull out a pipette, which I use to draw up the droplet of blood I squeezed out onto my black glove. I touch the pipette to the slide and finally make my trophy.

Once the slide is safely stowed with the others I start packing everything else. I've had more than enough of Gotham City anyways.


	23. Epilogue

I look out over Gotham, the wind fifty stories up whipping my cape behind me, still uneasy after my encounter with Morgan.

I'm not bothered by his former presence in Gotham City. As soon as I reached the Bat-cave after leaving the Joker's lair I put an alert on all his finances so I could track him. Within hours he had bought a plane ticket for Miami, retreating despite the few days still remaining on his contract with the GCPD. Right now he's on a plane taking him far from Gotham, and he's smart enough not to come back.

Contrary to what I would've said only days ago, I'm not bothered by the Joker's death either. I know it was only a matter of time. The Joker wasn't exactly likely to die of old age. I know that soon, someone will step up to take power, taking the Joker's place, but even that doesn't bother me much. His total disappearance means that anyone else will be leery about claiming his position, giving me a chance to clean up the city. Besides, it's doubtful that anyone who does try to take that spot will be anywhere near as bad as the Joker.

I'm a little bothered by Quinn, but not enough to explain my strong feeling of disquiet. The a few hours ago, just when Morgan's plane would have been taking off, Quinn found me. She said she needed time to think, to try to fix her life. She offered to come quietly to Arkham. Her only condition was that no one confiscate the chain around her neck, on which swung a small pendant.

I examined the pendant to make sure there she wasn't planning any tricks. It was a small vial filled with a dark, red liquid. I didn't ask, but I knew it was the Joker's blood, that she had somehow gotten it from Morgan. I don't know what happened between them, and I'm not sure I want to.

What disturbs me the most is the question that kept me up tonight, forcing me to go on patrol to clear my head.

Since my parents' murder, I've wondered what my life could have been. What my childhood should have been. Whether I would have been happy.

Morgan's story gave me a new question.

His scars are the same as mine, but deeper. The difference between us was the brutality of his mother's murder and his lower ability to cope with it.

So for the last couple hours, instead of thinking about how things would have been if my parents hadn't been killed in front of me, I've been forced to wonder how I would have turned out if I had been younger when it happened.

* * *

><p>It's nearly dawn as I enter my apartment for the first time in months. Despite the hour, the lights are on in the kitchen and Deb is sitting on the couch, her laptop unfolded on the coffee table in front of her.<p>

I open my mouth to greet her when she preemptively shushes me. I barely have time to put my bags down before she walks to the fridge, grabs two bottles of beer and heads outside, motioning for me to follow. Once we're outside and the door is closed she spins to face me.

"What is your fucking problem?" she demands.

"Nice to see you too," I say as I take the beer she holds out to me. At least now I know why we're outside. Harrison will be asleep, and I don't want him to wake up and hear whatever Deb has to say. Deb is still glaring at me, but considering I managed to placate a psychotic, homicidal clown only a few hours ago I think I can probably calm her down. "Look, Deb, I know I wasn't exactly subtle in Gotham-"

"What?" she cuts me off, looking genuinely baffled before my meaning dawns on her. "Oh yeah, that." She shakes her head. "I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about you leaving before your contract was up."

"Really?" I can't believe Deb's completely glossing over my killing spree in Gotham. She still looks pissed off, but this is a more forgivable offense.

"You know how bad this looks for me?" she asks. "For the department?" She utters a massive sigh of exasperation.

"I know I screwed up," I tell her. "But you have to trust me that I didn't have a choice."

"No fucking way," she shakes her head again. "I'm not letting you off that easy again. You can't just tell me to trust you anymore and expect me to forget it."

"Then what do you want?"

"A little honesty, for once."

Now it's my turn to sigh. "I ran into the Batman," I explain. "He told me if I left Gotham immediately he'd forget about it."

Deb stares at me in silence. "Seriously?" she finally asks.

I nod.

"Shit." She takes a long gulp of her beer and turns to look out over the water. "You think he'll come after you anyways?"

"I don't think so."

I follow Deb's lead and look to the horizon, where the first rays of sunlight are starting to appear over the water. We stand there in silence for a long time, watching the sun rise.

"Hey Dex?" Deb eventually says.

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you're back."

"Me too."

* * *

><p>END<p>

* * *

><p>Well, that really does wrap it up. Holy shit I can't believe how long this behemoth got! Anyways, leave a review, let me know what you think, and thanks for reading this far!<p> 


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